January's ice

The eave outside my window is 
crowded with bunches of 
sharp, clear icicles. I like to 

Think of them as well meaning, as 
guarding me from danger. I am not 
sure what kind of menace 

They expect to protect me from, but I 
have no plan to stop the ice. Every day 
brings a new formation of 

These ice soldiers: yesterday they 
took turns plummeting 
down to the frozen ground, and 

Today they are oddly shaped 
and clumpy along the sides. Is this 
the life of the Dane’s Snow Queen? Or maybe 

The cruel White Witch, secluded in Narnia 
with nothing but icicles 
outside her window?