A castle made of ice
towers on a hill.
Its slippery, glassy, frozen path
untraveled, always still.
Solidly it freezes all
who try to come inside,
powering above them all
with icicles of pride.
It shuts out all the caring rays,
frost bites them, stings them, too.
Warmth of wisdom's left behind,
along with all that's true.
A cozy cottage sits below,
snow-covered and serene.
Its warmth invites its guests to thaw
and know that she's their queen.
Margery Layton
11-97
