Evil lives in the slivers of our lives.
Its silver lines the winter splinters
inching up each year in autumn
to deliver eventually its hard ice
a carapace of near bone, water
obliterated as liquid into solidity
eventually to evaporate, as sun
some day heats it sufficiently to
release it into the air as mist, rain.
It always seeks to rise again to be
as angelic as it was before it fell
through the cold and snow to now.
Why need it fall on me, mine again.
