I have always loved reading poetry and often wished I could write it. At times I have tried and ended up with either a blank screen or something as corny as a field in Iowa. Upon moving to rural Indiana, I discovered I was dehydrated in soul and starving for natural beauty. Since living here, I have soaked up numerous sunrises and sunsets. I have gardened and walked in open fields and on lake shores. I have “wasted” time just meditating on God’s creation. One fall day as I gazed upon a blazing red maple, I felt as though my heart could not contain the glory of it. Somehow I had to express it, and it came out in simple poetic form. However, I still was not able to write more than four lines. Recently, I decided to challenge myself and see if I could break the four-line barrier. As I began writing what would become “Winter’s Child,” I thought I was writing about one thing but discovered later through inspiration that it was an entirely different thing. But before I give away the story, let me just tell it…
She came on snowflake slippers
Whispering, “I’m here, I’m here….
Just like I said I would be,”
And time stood still, frozen in the air.
Gingerly, I stepped out to greet her
In the twirling and whirling night.
I shouted, “Is this a dream?”
And wrapped myself in white.
With beckoning smile, she raced
Out t’wards the open field.
I hastened in her footsteps
With hopes and fears concealed.
Shortly, we reached the great wood,
And her black coat disappeared.
I hesitated to enter
As the shadows and spirits sneered.
The north wind whipped around me
As I pressed on into the dark.
Where she was leading I knew not;
My hand clutched my pounding heart.
Above the wind broke the sound
Of laughter and mirth and song.
I pressed through into a clearing –
Before me a frozen pond!
Spinning and spiraling, the girl
Of about nine years of age
Swept deftly across the ice
That served her well as a stage.
“Come join me!” she cried out in song
As she whisked by my frozen feet.
“Alas, I no longer have skates,”
My voice trailed off in defeat.
“Here you do not need them;
Come on out,” she laughed, “You’ll see!”
Cautiously, I followed her coaxing,
And soon I was soaring with glee!
With moonlight only for brightness,
We frolicked in meadowland
Until I lost my footing,
And she reached out her mittened hand.
Woolen and red were the mittens
With snowflakes about in a swirl.
I gasped and exclaimed when I saw them,
“Those were mine when I was a girl!”
My arm reached out to grab her,
And I felt something soft and warm.
Black Satin lay sleeping beside me
In her usual curled up form.
Memories broke open inside me,
A promise I made when but nine
To visit myself when older
So childhood would always be mine.
The broken clock on the mantel
All dust laden and forlorn
Struck evenly one…two…three…
And time was loosed once more.