On the threshold of the White Mountains
In the foothills of New Hampton
The sun begins to warm the valley.
The cold winter morning
Is melted and sprayed
Past the glistening freeze.
The age of a season has passed.
I can feel spring and see it
Lightly, loftily, taking
Note of the passing.
The morning greets me
With its regional substance
Of multiple shadows dancing in a single bowl.