Silver Filigree

Silver Filigree

The icicles wreathing
On trees in festoon
Swing, swayed to our breathing:
They’re made of the moon.

She’s a pale, waxen taper;
And these seem to drip
Transparent as paper
From the flame of her tip.

Molten, smoking a little,
Into crystal they pass;
Falling, freezing, to brittle
And delicate glass.

Each a sharp-pointed flower,
Each a brief stalactite
Which hangs for an hour
In the blue cave of night.

– Elinor Wylie (1885 – 1928)

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9 thoughts on “Silver Filigree

  1. I must get a macro lens – that’s a great pic where we can see the formations inside the wee icicles. Super!

  2. Nancy, yet another beautifully selected poem. This one is another treasure for sure. I always enjoy how you so seamlessly match a photo with the poetry.

    Diane

  3. I would never have thought to take that shot. I guess that’s why you’re a much better photographer than I am!
    Brenda

  4. Thank you all for your comments and kind thoughts. I love both poetry and photography, and the two seem like a natural duet.

I appreciate and welcome your comments!

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