Barefoot on Thin Ice HTML version

Flight of the poodles
The snow skies of October are
Lurking in the west
And the poodle clouds of Summer
Are gone.
It is warm
But I need fire.
There is a fire building
But we are children
By choice
Or fortune
Or lack thereof.
We make some awkward conversation,
But mostly look up for the
Last poodle of Summer.
We lean on each other
Try to touch
Somehow, innocently.
Our eyes meet
And we shiver
As we bedcheck our hands.
I give you my jacket.
The poodles are gone.
The maples are afire
But soon they will be naked.
Summer has almost lost,
The lake is alive.
I take your hand .
We know where we have to walk.
Down to the lake,
To hug Mother Nature
Before she hides away for Winter
And the grackels take the losers.
The earth still has the musty smell
Of Summer.
Hawks fly
In searc h of prey
The southern way.
One last chance to
Wiggle our toes in the lake.