The Ice House

The Ice House

The ice house stands, low and still,

frosted walls against the chill.

No flame inside, no warmth, no glow,

only cold from long ago.

Hands once packed the snow with care,

sealing summer’s warmth in there.

Layered thick, the ice held tight,

hidden safe from heat and light.

Now the roof sags, boards turn gray,

frost and time both slip away.

Yet through winters, deep and white,

it holds the cold, it keeps the night.

Snow drifts high against the door,

footsteps fade and come no more.

Still it waits, through thaw and storm,

empty, silent, stiff with form.