By PAUL LIMA
Return to Creative Writing


The kid believes in Jack Frost,
especially on winter mornings
when he discovers a frozen forest
more magical than any arctic landscape
etched upon his bedroom window.

He scrapes a ragged shiver through
the scene with well-chewed fingernails,
then melts a peep-hole to the world
by puffing lightly on the frosty fresco . . .

* * *

From head to toe,
the kid is dressed for battle
in Eaton's bargain basement best.

Shiny-blue snow suit is tightly zipped.
Well-worn rubber boots fit snugly
over three pairs of thick wool socks.
Knitted muffler, wrapped around neck
and covering mouth, absorbs nasal drips.
Idiot-mittens are fastened to coat sleeves
with frayed white string and safety pins.
Toronto Maple Leafs toque crowns his head
and keeps his big ears warm . . .

* * *

Grown-ups who pass him by
see his red cheeks and runny nose
and say, "Why don't you go
into the house to play?"

But the kid is too dumb
to believe winter madness
is anything less than absolute fun
as he shakes off his shivers
and plunges forward --
stabbing swirling snowflakes
with his outstretched tongue . . .


* * *

Through the diligent work of patient hands,
the kid transforms a shapeless mass
of snow into a magical fortress--
complete with moat, walls, gate and tower.

His friends think the fort is abandoned.
But as they approach to topple it
they discover it is occupied 
by the Catapult Kid 
who ambushes them
with well-aimed volleys
of well-packed snowballs
that sting like angry bees when they hit . . .


* * *

Early on Saturday morning, the kid
drifts through the new blanket of snow
that winter has draped over the yard.
Grinning like a little devil, he chooses
an unsullied spot and flops on his back.

Arms and legs flailing about, he forges
an innocent angel in the soft virgin snow.
Then rests in the cavity and listens
to silence so perfect he can hear snowflakes melt...

* * *

The kid names his snowman Frosty
after his favourite song.

Frosty's body is lumpy.
One twig-arm is longer than the other.
His head tilts precariously to the right.
His red-button smile is uneven.
His carrot nose is crooked.

Even so, the kid thinks Frosty is grand.
And as his snowman begins to sweat in the sun
the kid gives him a huge hug
then bites off the tip of his nose. . .

* * *

Like hard-working steam engines, the kid
and his friends chug to the top of the hill.
Then they slide down the snow-packed slope
on wooden sleds, sheets of cardboard, garbage can lids
or the slippery surface of snow-suit covered bums.

After the outing, they sit at his mother's
kitchen table and stare into steaming mugs
of hot Nestle's Quick where Kraft marshmallows melt
like miniature snowmen on a sunny afternoon . . .

* * *

Alone in the school yard,
the kid shifts from foot to foot.
Frost forms on his thin eyebrows.
Tears trickle down his chapped cheeks.
His toes, frozen stiff, start to throb.
The kid is angry. The kid is embarrassed.
The kid has no choice but to wait.

So he waits. And he waits . . . He waits
for a grown-up to liberate his tongue
from the tenacious grip of the chain-link fence
the kid thought he could lick . . .

* * *

The kid should have been home hours ago.
But who can blame him for being late?
He had snowmen to create
Snow forts to build
Hills down which to roll
And round snow missiles 
to throw at giggling girls.

Now, as street-lights glow softly 
in a misty swirl of falling flakes,
He waddles like a pudgy penguin
trudging haphazardly through drifts
that dwarf his nibblet size.

* * *

Always in winter
the kid enters her house
through the back door.
He drops his soggy scarf
and mismatched mittens on the cold shed floor.
He kicks off his galoshes
and strips down to long-johns
congealing against prickly skin.
Then he waits for grandma's inspection.

Always she finds him
ruddy-cheeked, runny-nosed
but snow free. 
And she welcomes him with an embrace
that carries him into her kitchen
where chicken soup simmers 
on the stove --
its delectable aroma alone
enough to warm the chilliest of souls . . .

* * *

Standing on the grey veranda,
the kid reaches up
with his CCM hockey stick
and knocks an icicle
off the green eaves trough.

It falls
and shatters
into glistening fragments
leaving deep impressions
in the snow . . .