Water Tap-Dances on Tin Roofs

Water tap-dances on tin roofs,

announcing a change,
interrupting the howling winter wind
as it moves through
frozen meadows,
singing the same song,
day after day,
out of tune,
and never improving;
a freight train's distant whistle,
calling to lost souls
as it whips across
frost-nipped, barren fields,
forests of tall, Pine frozen shrines,
and homes of ice and glass, 
blowing through
translucent, matchbook walls,
finding every window gap,
and ill fitting threshold;
picking paths past us for
destinations beyond the fire,
where white walls,
(bathed in reds and yellows),
become the backdrop for
dancing wall-shadows, and
silent film
star-crossed lovers.
             
Water tap-dances on tin roofs,
announcing a change,
melting the cornerstones of ice
that still linger in the faces
formed in dark cracks,
churning the deep
layers of the lake,
falling on winter's 
melting, frosty encasement.
Each drop of rain,
counted and noted,
while winter waits its turn to come again.