November Letter

A snow-filled world is a bowl just so wide with an intimate, friendly feeling inside. Earth's lonesome toil was the dark yesterday; soon it will stain crystal carpet to grey. But in world lately born, they lock arms and shout where the boot tracks meet when the path's shoveled out. Quick-frozen blossoms sprout from hellos and flower from fellow explorers of snows. A bouquet of echoes to exile has come in a sealed packet pocked by a wet woolen thumb. Unlovely dear blot, it remembers the thrill of a streak down the slide of a snow-covered hill, The trailing fine thread of skates spinning by, a braided ski path binding valley to sky. Reach out a greeting with frost-reddened hand; sun-burned fingers trace in dry white sand.