[sitliq: Inuit for hard crusty snow]

the kid wore woollen mittens
pinned to his serge wool parka
and those navy wool breeches
with their laced leggings that
looked so much like the Mounties’
but were not so great when
his woollen stockings slid down his legs
and left them raw and red.

wool seemed to be perpetually wet
when it wasn’t frozen into
a series of knotted ice balls
or a hard cold pad on his knees
but it was the mittens that would fall aside
or drag off
and his hands would scrape numbly
against the hard crusty snow
chunks that could serve as
any kind of toy
a puck
a plate
a weapon
a ball replacement
a cool drink

his fingers were raw and red
as his knees
his ears were red chunks
his nose ran like an icicle
in far away spring
forming a snotsicle on his upper lip
it was getting dark
he was cold

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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