In winter light, Frail, hard to pinpoint, We find peace, warming our ankles walking. We blow air from our lungs into the sky And kick our feet in still-unfrozen leaves, Lining our way with fancied angels' hair And angels' wings. We think of things Like fallen tree-fluff, and we stuff Nuts in mittens to make them bulge. We snatch dried grass into our hands And make big piles, rivaling mountains.
