24th in a Series of 26

Because this world has gone uncentered

The girl and I march forth at sunset

Across patchy white; I am tethered

To a wooden sled, in the basement

Long interred; the trees’ elbows are powdered

With the fine-grained snow that fell last night

In a frost cold, the like not encountered

Yet this year, though January is quite

Near its end; the month of turning 

Is losing its season, but still, out 

We go as the temperature slides, scouting

For a frozen track when the sun ending

Its short term leaves the cold to reign

And ice–at last–for a first and final run.