The street was cold, snow had yet to fall, asphalt frozen, pearly grey and
pavement tiles cracked underfoot. The sky was limp clear, the sun was
but a decoration, a miserable yellow balloon not taken down after
the New Year party. From the insipid sky, hung icicles the sun couldn’t
thaw, but solar reflections made them look like sparkling diamonds.
A frozen painting of isolated beauty, of an unbridgeable haughtiness
that knew of no compassion. White clouds gathered looking as a flock
of polar bears waking over their future demise. But their warm breaths
thawed the icicles that fell like snow, covered the land; and my untidy
garden appears equal to the neat ones.
