Mothers with Coffee Talk of Carefree Youth and Recipes

Push bundled progeny outdoors without warnings or reprimands.  
The first born, practice child, digs her private snow cave.  It is a carefully considered structure, excavated in the hard-packed, roadside heap.  She sits inside a newly muffled world and breathes out plumes of frosty air into the watery, blue grotto light.  Never considers the plow heaving along on a clean-up, second pass, blades biting, sparks against asphalt, hurling boulders of snow.
No scarlet blood splashes the white.  No flesh ruined or ripped.  Rebirth.  Emerge as a small rising goddess, carved from hoary ice.  No tears or howls.  Dance on the rough mountain.  Then silently shivers in the hush. 

—Lisa Cihlar, Brodhead, WI