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.
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