Silver Filigree

The icicles wreathing On trees in festoon Swing, swayed to our breathing: They're made of the moon.

She's a pale, waxen taper; And these seem to drip Transparent as paper From the flame of her tip.

Molten, smoking a little, Into crystal they pass; Falling, freezing, to brittle And delicate glass.

Each a sharp-pointed flower, Each a brief stalactite Which hangs for an hour In the blue cave of night.