An Evening Stroll

The door swung slowly shut behind her

as she began maneuvering down the walk

with its daily coating of

ice and snow.

A cane (thicker than her wrist)

tested every step and let her proceed.

At a snowbank her right hand

knotted and cupped

dipped down.

And she smiled.

She moved faster now

though her back curved forward and

her knees never quite straightened.

In ten minutes’ time she reached a meadow

—a group of trees clinging

to a handful of leaves

marked the edge.

And below them was a bundle

of pristine houses which

creeped closer every year—

She stopped.

She turned toward the trees and

saw a troop of children

hurling snowballs and

shrieking in

protestation and pure fun,

and the field was dotted with

makeshift forts and makeshift flags

(mittens on sticks)

marking territory.

Every nose burned and every face flushed

and every eye spoke.

From across the street

a man looked out and saw his neighbor,

knee-deep in snow with

a clump of it in her hand,

and she was laughing.

“Huh,” he said, “imagine that.”

Which is exactly what she was doing.