Icy Icicles

Icy Icicles

I see icicles drip, drip down,

Dripping silently to the ground.

I cannot hear the drip, drip sound,

As I sit safe inside.

For outside it is much too cold,

And my body is much too old.

In all my years, if truth be told,

I’ve learned it’s better to hide.

But when I was a little girl,

And these gray hairs had life and curl,

I’d just dance and twirl, twirl, twirl;

No walls could keep me in, then.

Now that I don’t walk so good,

And no longer hear things like I should,

I remember back to when I could,

And my memories are friends, again.

by Peter T. Atkinson

           Coralee E. Atkinson

           Clara M. Atkinson