I am lying on my back in a 4-foot snowdrift
along the slope of a Berrien county ravine
walnut trees tower over me, as armfuls of snowflakes fall
tossed by the white sky, now, pin-cushioned by sleek, dark branches

my thighs still feel the pull of the snow I climbed through
from the creek bed below
this much frozen water feels dense as Lake Michigan waves
when walking out, on a hot August day, to a sandbank 30 feet from the shore

I feel soft, delicate flakes melt on my newly-warmed skin
while whispers of shifting air freeze my wet eyelashes
I listen to the near-silent sounds of other small creatures
I am 24-years, six Earth Day celebrations, and several anti-nuclear protests older

still innocent of the fact
that someday in the distant future
I will look back and truly understand
the gift of winter