THE HAND THAT I HELD

I remember that day
when my toes were so cold,
when I thought I’d never grow old,

I remember how good it felt,
the hand that I held,
as I trudged up the hill
to slide down again,
and again,

I can still taste the cold,
feel the crunch of the snow,

I think of it now and again,
and remember how good it felt,
the hand that I held,

I remember it even now
after so many winters have passed.

Poem and Photo by Rita Bourland
Norton the Dog at Sunny 95 Hill
Photo editing by Philip Bourland