The North is white

and cold

and boring and cold and

even when the trees are dipped in ice and slick

and flickering in the light each

branch with bleeding thorns under

the bright sun

even then

I do not love the North


even when the snow has covered

the road and the lake and

I remember being young,

with the quiet of the night

except for the click

and clack of skates on the ice

and perhaps a dog barking at

the chatter of two young girls

skating the woody creek

in the dark alone

even when I remember this

I still

do not want to live

here anymore

There is no patience to teach

my child the thrill of play

frozen toes, boots caked with snow

I have no patience

to stand watch like this

in the cold

in this cold North

of my life.