Like something bringing back that old term,
the soft crump of snow where heels dig in,
the ski-lift’s tick-tick-tick and chirr
in its near-silent passage through pine tops.
Amongst forest turning grey as concrete,
down over freshly drifted banks,
our footsteps are a kind of indiscretion,
but one that fades with each next fall or thaw.
Winter’s curbing the future; visibility
measured in inches. How warm then
now to be gathered in this hut
where accumulated snow cuffs melt
and conversations open again
with explanations of new words.
