Ice Rose
By John Herlihy

The ice rose took shape and began to be born
. . . by the hand of the Master, with a delicate chisel shorn.
There would be time enough at its disposal
. . . for the whole of the world its passing to mourn.
To sparkle for a while and to live gloriously in the frigid sun,
. . . icicles form drop by drop and webs are by inch spun.
Exquisitely traced by the delicate hand of time with considerable cost,
. . . the world is at its feet; its eternity is encased in frost.

Formed by the seconds, minutes and hours that constitute time
. . . by overlays of intertwined rhythm and rhyme.
The picture of a world slowly began to take shape and come alive
. . . to live for a brief time, a world in a world, as it struggles to survive.
Acute angles and crusty crevices are fringed with the adornment
. . . of the ice chips that cluster together furry frost to make.
Let it rain or let it snow, the ice crystals already know
. . . what it means to come into existence and slowly grow

A white crystal rose is now being born
. . . it suddenly appears in winter’s wonderland to adorn.
Cold, calculating winter simply drains the red color in sips
. . . until the fragile rose has frosted flakes on its frozen lips.
Frozen in form and without the ability thru movement to speak,
. . . the beautiful creation has other means its fulfillment to seek.
Catch the miracle of its hallowed presence glow in moonlight
. . . before it disappears once again with the passing of the night.

The body traced by a halo
. . . emitting an aura of mysterious light.
Traced in silhouette against the surrounding darkness
. . . as though claiming full possession all through the night.
Puff and it is gone, vanished as if it were never there,
. . . like a cloud blown by wind or a sound-frightened hare,
What took endless hours of patient work to construct,
. . . vanished quietly into thin air in a matter of a second.
Melted by the warmth of the day’s sun,
. . . far sooner than anyone could rightly reckon.

The cold chill of admiration stakes its claim;
. . . The warmth of human touch would permit no blame.
To touch the frozen ice rose would disturb its tender balance
. . . between the cold breath of winter and the frosted silence.
Deep inside the rose, a crystal eye stared back at me.
. . . the eyes of nature never lie; I wondered what it could see.
I gazed in admiration before slipping into the eye of the rose
. . . and what did I find there but a loving repose.
Staring back at the lost face of the poet now feeling gone
. . . who is only willing to identify himself as a person named John.
No priest, sage or poet would he claim himself to be,
. . . only another one of God’s creatures like the bird or bee.