Icicle Lines

These days I seem to be looking at the world through Icicle lines.  A prisoner kept in my cell by icy bars over windows and doors.  The snowbanks rise taller than me, everywhere white and gray.  The silence surrounds the snow, creeping into every crevice.  I try to escape, I shovel paths but they fill up again with fluffy white coldness and I retreat to my warm prison behind the bars of ice.  Someday soon I hope to be freed by the warmth of spring sunshine.  The gray and white will be replaced by green and growing things.  I will forget that I was once imprisoned by icicle lines.