Beauty is a Survivor

the icicles drip

and drip and

drip, reaching as long as they could,

before

the air constricts them.

they wiggle and waver,

controlled only by the push

and pull

of earth.

reflective of

what it is not

of the white snow, settled down in comfort

of the marks others have made-able to move,

without restraint.

they even make music, as the earth moves,

creating melodies

before falling.

the seering cold it

breathes,

a taste of

what earth holds

it lives just as it is, despite all odds wanting it to push it down. and that is beautiful.

because what is beauty without it giving everything it has?