A brilliant beard of ice
Hangs from the edge of the roof
Harsh and heavy as glass.
The spikes a child breaks off

Taste of wool and the sun.
In the house, some straw for a bed,
Circled by a little train,
Is the tiny image of God.

The sky is fiery blue,
And a fiery morning light
Burns on the fresh deep snow:
Not one track in the street.

Just as the carols tell
Everything is calm and bright:
The town is lying still
Frozen silver and white

Is only one child awake,
Breaking the crystal chimes? --
Knocking them down with a stick,
Leaving the broken stems.

Robert Pinsky, Icicles