Cold start, hot with fret.
More beauty to see than path.
The last leg?
Endless.
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Anne Spice's Haiku Deconstructed
My good friend Marcus says he "always sprints to the finish." For me, the view of the finish line is usually my signal to start walking. In the case my snowshoeing excursion with my dad and sestra K on Sunday, we weren't quite certain of the trail's end, but no matter, we set on it happily.
Like a good haiku poem the first five syllables of the path were attention grabbing. Prettiness was everywhere, chill kept our body temperatures in check, and we were so busy taking pictures I was certain we'd not have our fill of actually experiencing the scenery (the reason I despise photographic intrusions) before the journey was over.
By the middle seven syllables we'd settled into the poem of our trail. Bantering back and forth, pausing now only to point out the truly unique and extraordinary, breathing and enjoying the exchange of warm for cold air.
Those last five syllables hit suddenly, almost without warning. The sun was in danger of setting, we'd lost a sense of certainty that we were on the correct path, and without knowing it till then, we were tired. Our steps became heavy, dogged, and dragging. Without a finish line in even the remote distance, I barely wanted to walk, let alone sprint. I dawdled along, carrying my coat, then my gloves, with passing fantasies of carrying my hat and sweater; the exertion was making me overheated despite the cold. An eternity of minutes after when I thought our trek was surely close to over, it actually did end.
And I thought it had all the makings for haiku: nature, no rhyme (or reason?), a lovely beginning, mostly led down a pretty little line, then, bam, the ugly twist, pithy with truth and insight.
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