This one emerged as I jogged through Reynolda House trails, although the ice was added as “icing” for the poem:
Winter Solstice – NC
Jogging on sole-pummeled leaves,
Matted by quilts of pine straw,
Whirring of distant chain-saws,
One must stop—panting in heaves,
Frost-capped ivy, last night’s freeze.
The pond veneered by thin ice,
Cheeks smarting from morning chill.
Yet now, no sound, all is still!
A breeze wafts rotting-wood spice . . .
Once—not twice—this paradise.