Holly drifts her fingers in the beck,
like I do when I’m in a boat,
feeling the rush of resist
while I safely, gently float.
But it is January not July
and not really wise to linger,
caressing the water’s surface
with naked, exposed fingers.
So Holly’s fingers are icicling
as the beck water freezes fast.
If I was her, there’s just no way
I’d have the resolve to last.
The air alone has chased my hands
deep into my bright red mittens,
I wish poor Holly’s could get warm too,
no matter how prettily they glisten.