Yellow won’t last.

It is often unwelcome, though.

Under appreciated

Except by the birds

And the children.

 

To despise a season

For it’s lack

Never crosses

Their minds.

 

What is?

That’s what they see.

What is

And how can I

Become one with it?

It’s the ice that does it.

Draws them

Irresistibly.

All those puddles,

Lakes really,

Of sitting water,

Compelling them.

How far can I go

Before I fall through?

When will it crack?

How deep will it be?

It’s that tempting

Unknown,

Inching

Out

Into

Mystery,

Uncertainty

And then

That satisfying crack

And the cold pressure

Of rubber meeting bare skin

As the water swirls

And the boots contract.

 

Some become positively nautical.

We did.

We attempted to re-enact

The Titanic

Repeatedly.

I lamented greatly

When my growing body

No longer allowed my access

To our grand ship,

That old yellow sled

And I envied my little brother

His lightness.

We continued on though.

Me pulling him along

With that frayed rope,

His proud prow

Thundering through the icy waters.

We casted off into deeper and deeper waters.

Some class 5 rapids even,

Heedless of danger.

A policeman stopped us that day.

Apparently when I told him our mother was watching us

And pointed 4 acres away

He didn’t think

That distance

Quite within arms reach.

We would come home wet,

And cold

And rosy

And happy

And anxious to do it again

Cause in the night the magic happened.

All that ice we broke was reformed

And called us to rise

With the sun

And crack it all

Again.