We woke up early that day,
a cold morning with icy winds that burnt our faces.
We gripped our hot chocolates with stiff fingers,
every sip of warm rich liquid somehow warmer than a summer day,
because despite the cold wasteland surrounding us,
we felt warm inside, and happy.
We woke up early that day,
at the hour when even streetlights and road signs were drowsy.
I slept in the back seat of a borrowed car while my parents drank coffee,
and struggled to stop their eyes from sinking
as they stayed awake through the deep white blue snow that led down the road
to where the earliest touches of sun, orange and glowing,
lit up through the clouds and shone upon the glaciers that surrounded us,
and filled up the sky more than the sky itself.
We woke up early that day,
to set steady feet on a swaying deck
that would carry us across vast blue waves with foamy white crests
to a distant island with only duck prints, and icy hills
that could be skated down with any old shoes.
So we ran and slid across the slick surface
before falling down the rest of the way,
our laughter guarding us from the jagged ice at the bottom.