If only Bonhomme could see me now

friday night, feels like minus thirty-five
the brave-stubborn-stupid go for a ride
Shooting down landscapes of ice, crown ahead
Exploding into powder, limbs wildly flailing
Brush meeting brush, like a face-wash of better times.
a different permutation could be dangerous.

moist, warm air, forced upwards by covered mouth
along with aforementioned snow encounters
cause Beardsicles to form
slowly invading the stiff upper lip
encrusting a sculpture worthy, digne du Carnaval.

- Copyright © A. Johnson, QHF Publishing Co. under the creative commons license