I see the ice, the ice sees me.
The ice and I do not agree,
On what its purpose here should be….
A source of mirth or misery?
Unwelcome ice is oh so rude,
No social grace does it exude.
A slave to science, ice intrudes
When Fahrenheit says 32.
Beneath my blade, ice breathes a “hiss”
The sound of winter’s weariness.
But ice will change its attitude,
When springtime brings a better mood.
The kind of ice that I prefer,
Is nicer ice that I can stir,
Into my frosty summer drink,
The kind of ice that just says “clink!”