I Love Ice
As sickles hanging from the eave,
In cubes so cold and nice.
A frozen fool, for I believe
There’s nothing cool as ice.
It’s fun to crack a frigid chunk.
It’s fine on cuts and scrapes.
And sometimes sculptors hew a hunk
in fancy, frosty shapes.
It formed the valleys long ago.
It gouged a glacial rift.
There’s ice above and ice below
where icebergs floe and drift.
And whether it be on the ground
Or when I choose to munch:
I know for sure the sweetest sound
is hearing ice say, “Crunch!”
I love it all, make no mistakes.
I think all ice is nice,
but when it falls in flurried flakes:
my favorite kind of ice.