Icicle

Icicle, born in antiquity
Hanging in contemporaneity. They call it sun.
For her, its the incentive to run
Forsaking the transparency, or the myth of it
Slender, stained, angled to a stranger's rooftop
The playmate of winter grows unveiled
And on nights when the chilly foes yearned,
For my skin, embellished in frost
I would step out, impressing on;
Inciting Icicle's tears, dropping cold
Quenching the stick of fire, I tamed
Between my fingers. Whispered eclipse,
Till the drop died wet , annealed in amazement.