On Facing Facism with Whimsey

Is it time yet for hot cocoa and a warm fire?

The taste of wet wool mittens, the taste of
silent snow. The dark hot taste of blood 
when you fall and cut your lip on the ice,
sliding across the pond in the dusk alone. 
No one is nearby, so you won’t bother crying.
The taste of black twigs and cold stones.

My inner child holding hands with my inner crone
wearily one more time climbing up the steep snowy 
hill, asks, “Why are the mean people in charge?”
Holding tight to my tiny hand and tight to
the rope of the sled, my inner crone
replies, “Sweet one, good people don’t want power.”

Together, this wisdom and this innocence
enfold one another on the splintery wooden
slats of the ancient sled, cling and then 
both shriek with fierce delight. Hurtle, 
not quite controlled, through the bitter wind
and hope to avoid the shadowed trees.