Ice shifts in the glass;
it clinks against the sides, then
settles once again.
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Solid into liquid ice melts. Love the sound that ice makes in the glass. Good job.
Gotta agree with Harper. Ice is such a scary word now. Loved your poem!
Like everyone else in the US, I now bristle when I see the word “ice.” I am so thankful that this is the kind I like, in the place I like it—a glass.💖
More stories from Luna Jordan and writers in Poets and other communities.
Wind lifts a receipt. It slides on the bare sidewalk, then stops at the curb.
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She’s yet to say those famous lines But shows her heart in woven signs Refilling mugs and warming hands A touch that says what words can’t span
By Abi Rose Travisa day ago in Poets
Been thinking a lot about drinking, lately. Not least because of a recent episode of over-indulgence and the inevitable after effects. Some readers may recall the earlier articles I wrote about beating the booze. Here I set out an experiment in techniques for cutting down on my alcohol intake. The experiment was successful, the techniques worked, and I have armed myself with an arsenal of weapons in the war against the demon drink. I have yet to fire the first round however. It's all a question of timing (perhaps procrastination).
By Raymond G. Taylor4 days ago in Psyche
Comments (3)
Solid into liquid ice melts. Love the sound that ice makes in the glass. Good job.
Gotta agree with Harper. Ice is such a scary word now. Loved your poem!
Like everyone else in the US, I now bristle when I see the word “ice.” I am so thankful that this is the kind I like, in the place I like it—a glass.💖