In late autumn, in-between the mountains, a sinking sun
glows bright orange. Silhouetted on ridges above the valleys —
pines, leafless maples, stark bare oak trees.
I notice a single leaf wobbling
on a low birch branch near me.
I presumed, waiting on the winter wind
for her invitation to an early frost
and a late autumn’s— evening’s fling—
encircling wooden posts with rusting wire fences
for a dance floor, dancing my first winter waltz
with the chill wind, red cheeks blushing warm—
–Snow glistening across the meadow
Pushed through the White Mountains—
Enjoying delightful winter flakes on my tongue.
Kicking snow into white clouds announcing
my next boot’s intention
— lest’ I slip.
Twirling in traditional steps of solid granite stature.
Dipping, stomping, sliding, gabbing a handful of snow
kissed, licked, and eaten cold.
we would play and dance to a robust measure of silent music;
then, with symphonic pause –time for another last thought—
I would be pushed home
whistled in snowflake crescendo,
pulling up my collar,
and tightening my wool hat
towards drifting wood stove smoke
and supper on the kitchen table
with a cup of hot chocolate that was perfectly warm.
Thoughts – as I watched,
late autumn sun setting on
my New Hampshire home.