Image posted with the permission of the artist. More of Andrea Starkey's work can be found at her website, blog, and Etsy store.
The icicles make the trees seem to hang their heads and drip, a gesture as sorrowful as a weeping willow. But really there is not a drop of movement, nor a whisper of sound. The sky is so terribly still and gray. Time itself seems to have stopped, and we have been given a long moment to reflect on the sound of silence, the extremes of black and white, and the mystery of the number zero.
Each icicle has its own unique contours, unique as a snowflake. They stand together in lines like disheveled soldiers. White and weather-worn, like bleached bones. Skulls without eye sockets.
Cold as the frozen over river that ceases to flow. Cold as a tomb in January. Cold as the top of the tallest mountain. Should we weep over this cold? Or instead use it as an excuse to close in tight with each other for warmth? Loyal 'til the end and beyond.