December frost bows to January’s ice,
the gentle chill now swallowed by a wind
with whistle turned to roar.  Blue skies
have grown cynical.
This valley world has morphed
to manacled prisoner;
some wry alchemy has brutalized the air.
Bone crunching cold knows no mercy.

Ballet Blanc moves to a different drum.
Soft landing turns to slam dance and yet
the choreography still astounds.
Cold darkness
holds a new glow. The child inside awakens
with delight. Thoughts of back break shoveling
disappear as heart assumes control of the cranial.
It is time to make a snow angel.