Happiness is the faded memory
of tiny cross-country skis
next to your father’s tall ones,
and of climbing the snowy hill sideways
(or else you will fall back down).
Happiness is the sight of a frozen pond
next to an open field,
and the swish-swish of skis
penetrating the still, quiet air.
Happiness is a beautiful old house
nestled in evergreen trees,
sagging with the weight
of the sparkling snow.
This was a time of an innocent mind,
not yet troubled with the weight of the world.
