befriend a brook, sled, follow the lure, walk on water.
Every day watch the brook
purl through its narrow defile
thrusting out fingers of lacy ice.
They touch and cling,
little bridges swathed in snow,
stark white against
the dark swirls of the stream.
More snowcapped rooflets form,
curling around whirlpools which
plunge and froth until sheathed in turn.
One morning you see only
a long curving boa of snow.
The lovely, ever-changing song of the brook
dims and deepens to a faint
susurration under the ice.
Go up to the sledding hill.
Before you whiz down in a swirl of icy flakes
lift your eyes to the mountains
improbably crowned with white lace.
Lured by this mystery
climb up Cabin or Palmer Hill
to a sparkling, spine tingling
wonderland: every twig snow-frosted
in the crystalline air.
On a still, sunny day
stand with a friend in the middle
of a lake (a pond will do).
Cut off from the world,
magically walking on water and
bathed in the sun’s warmth,
bask in flowing conversation,
These are 4 ways I know. Send us yours.