There is a harsh love
borne with the swift wind
which nips at the noses
and reddened cheeks of children
clad in snow over wool.

On a white-blanketed hilltop,
the children laugh
with nervous anticipation
of the screaming plunge
down the steep slope,
Slick lightning ride
to the bottom of the world.

The emerging stars wink
to each other and
those reminiscing elders
busy remembering their own
breathless, brakeless races
through endless evenings,
bygone in yesteryear.

Darkness falls all too soon
but protests are stilled
by parents mustering the hordes
with promises of steaming cocoa
and hints about the wonders
waiting in bright boxes
beneath decorated trees.

Later, the wind brushes by
the sleeping houses of Midnight.
It plays with the pungent smoke
curling upward from chimneys,
and the soft flakes drift
into their appointed places
in tomorrow’s playground.

© 1991, Aaron Brown