Making Ice Cubes Poem by Frank William Finney

On the morning of your initiation,
the clock became the target of scorn.
The crows were grazing in the sprouting grass
and the cows were chewing endless
packs of spearmint gum.
Slowly the days succumbed to shadows
and cricket calls.
until a harvest of cotton clothes fermented
by the back hall door.
Now the hallway reeks of apple wine,
Now the legs march on the hill.
And as the farmers fill their mason jars
with the spoils of another gaunt and feeble year,
let's pour our old convictions
into the little white cells
of an ice cube tray
and wait for the blanket
of the frozen moon.
Even now--you see--
(as the sun burns out) ,
that old spinster still provides.