frozen in front of a mirror, with my razor in my hand,
                                      poised
in front of the slippery white gel solution, softening,
                                     the beard,
all over my face while, out my frosted window white
                                 background
to a clear pane of glass, smooth as the blades touch
                                    my face,
there is no drag, just precision until there are sleigh bells jingling,
                                   going by
on the road and the runners and blades skim through with little
                           resistance, both cut
their way through white, until I am done, with out a nick
                               or a scratch,
over and over again until white becomes wind-burned bright pink hue
                 and the forested dial, becomes a bare cutblock.
                              And a warm
               rinse of water or two and we are through.



                    ©ClemC122013