«Sweeping the Path | Main | A Stroke of Insight»

I remember coming in from the cold
cheeks burnt red from the wind
mittens frozen into the shape of my hands
eyes bright with the immense light of snow
and the promise of tomorrow's hills
where once again the squeak of runners on powder
the quickening of child and sled
would blur into one fast motion
scream into air so thin
it might break from the joy

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