Under a dusting of snow,
The scoop of the path
Through the pines, solid. . .
And there is the skating pond
With its dance floor,
Black-polished by the moonlight,
Under the old starry ballroom ceiling.
And you wonder how long
Before you see someone you know;
Your eyes are smiling though
Because you invited just yourself.
It’s like stepping into an old rock song.
There she is, you see her,
Over there by the coke machine;
It’s really the sound of the machine’s
Accepting the coins that evokes her. . .
The clunking of the cold green bottle
As is drops down, sets the mood. . .
You feel like a single man
Walking toward this season
Whom you’re going to ask to dance.
And it’s going to be a waltz. . .
And you see that she’s wearing boots of fur
And a dress trailing silvery bark. . .
And her lips are blue,
Her eyes, black of course, but not
As black as her hair
Which smells like oak
When you split the log.
And her hair is a snarl of twigs and seeds;
You know she never looked into a mirror,
Unless you count yourself as one.
And there it is, you take her hand;
Your left palm forms to her waist,
And you hold her, cold and unyielding
Against your hard-won warmth. . .
And the music?
It’s the same loop
That’s been playing since high school!
And that voice that you have come to trust
Since your first dance
With winter, that voice begins
With its perfect intonation:
1-2-3,
1-2-3,
1-2-3. . .