This one emerged as I jogged through Reynolda House trails, although the ice was added as “icing” for the poem:

Winter Solstice – NC


Jogging on sole-pummeled leaves,

Matted by quilts of pine straw,

Whirring of distant chain-saws,

One must stop—panting in heaves,

Frost-capped ivy, last night’s freeze.


The pond veneered by thin ice,

Cheeks smarting from morning chill.

Yet now, no sound, all is still!

A breeze wafts rotting-wood spice . . .

Once—not twice—this paradise.