Awaking in a dream I walk across Beaver's frozen pond, dense clumps of tag alder rise like gnarled skeletal hands barely visible through blinding snow, as drifts creep toward me black branches crowd against the winding trail, the snow packed hard above an unseen icy world which come Spring will melt into eight treacherous feet of water if Beaver's dam holds, but in this lifeless landscape safe passage ahead unfolds. 2024
This is our back yard, which is frozen. At the back of the yard there is a beaver pond. It was a path we have both walked on and your poem is alive with home.