When the trees talk like a playground of little children…
It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.
When an already graying muzzle looks like a pile of powdered sugar…
It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.
When the earth moves below sedentary feet…
It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.
When the bark is pulled from the birch…
It is a New Hampshire kind of cold.
For such a small state of consciousness.
It takes a large dose of skepticism.
And, more than a pinch of foolishly bold…
To walk within, a New Hampshire kind of cold.
