It’s cold, my hands are numb in the night air—

I should have worn my gloves and a down vest.

Between Big Hill and Cherryvale, I stare

across the reservoir’s glistening crest,

the moon bisected by its marble slope.

As a child, I undressed behind the shed

whose blanched docks arced down to the metal boats

anchored for the winter at the lake’s edge.

I come every year to retrace those steps—

I descend from the drifts and the deadwood

to where the thin ice buckles underfoot

and the blackened water travels like blood

down the frozen ankles of my youth,

pouring in the vestibules of my shoes.