the first
slush
in one's shoes, wet
and cold
in the hard sleet,
giddy with speed
against
the wind filled snow,
barreling down the hill
on your flyer,
with numb hands
and toes, face
as red as apples.
who can't remember
such times
and wish them
back again, trading them
easily
against the warmth
of fire
and home.
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