Icicle

    One droplet
          followed by another,
          each holding hands with the last,
                an unbroken chain.

    It does not appear in a moment,
          sweeping strokes of pen or brush
          painting on a canvas-sky
                the crystal scepter
                of winter’s might.

    Just one drop, followed by another . . .

    I would hasten the process,
          urge the Sculptor on.
    “Why the pace,
          methodical and slow?--
    “I have a race to run,
          a course to finish,
                a fight to win.”

    

    But He says,
          “Be still.
    “Wait with Me--
          wait and watch and work;

    “What I forge,
          one breath after another,
                is not the act alone,
                        hot from the furnace of effort--
      but the life,
            pressed in the crucible of time.”

    “Just one breath, followed by another.”

        © 2011 by Robert G. Robbins

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