White on white on white
and pindrops of liquid ice
pummeling gently the crimsoned cheek pillows
while breath, a mist-ical haze of dreamy perfection
rushes out in a flood of carbon dioxide and effort,
one more step, one more step, one last step.
As far as the ear can hear
the pitched whistle of mountain air
and the full stops of bubbled silence,
keeping at bay all else but the taps
of blood knocking on four-door heart
ready for cruise control:
step into footprint, footprints in footprints.
As after hours flurry along, around,
bobbing pricks of light in a caterpillar line
near the promise of chopsticked icicle fingers
warmed by miniature flames as they bring tea
to the breaking point of one hundred degrees,
while minus ten swirls thin tendrils into the door cracks,
begging to let winter in.
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