margaret and I can walk on top of the snow today,
and this is why: after days of
freezing and thawing, melting and wringing and drying stiff and small
a thick 18 inches, we had in january
now just a dry february husk.

margaret and I can skim over the top of this husk:
we pretend to be dexterious; the rule of the game is
you break, you lose
I never lose, and margaret neither, though she tries
to hammer and pound the snow with her tiny ballet feet
I cry out to stop
but she does not stop until the husk, the rind of ice
has broken her.