The red grass (dead) grows redder as
the setting sun lays its dying body on the earth’s dry bed.
All the houses here in New Hampshire have character:
painted red doors with tinsel and porches wreathed in pearls of twinkling lights.
Or maybe that’s all in my head and my
suburban town has so much I haven’t seen yet,
creeks undisturbed, grass untrodden, stones untouched.
We pass by the Alton Bay to our right, and I ask
if it’s frozen over and my dad replies from the driver’s seat,
“Just the surface.”
Funny, could have fooled me,
but one solid step would have told me otherwise.
How unnervingly mistaken we can be from a surface’s appearance
to the depths of what hangs beneath in weighted longing for questions.
I remind myself to look harder,
that growing up is not the best in all things,
because maybe we were onto something when
all we wanted (needed) as babies was
to know more,
and we weren’t afraid to ask for it.
Give me more.
The sun is sitting low in the sky now,
an orange egg resting on a line of tree tops to my left.
The snow is blue, colder than it has ever looked,
and we pass by a body of water unfrozen.
“Water won’t freeze unless it’s still,” my dad says.
So we do the same, moving forward
because it’s all we know to do.
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