Sometimes ice would freeze over pine needles,
and my siblings and I would treat ourselves
to nature’s popsicles.

Taking the branch twig carefully in our gloved hands,
we’d suck the ice from the needles
or tap the clean pieces into our palms,
choosing only the ones without bits of bark or green.

They always tasted faintly of the tree—
a winter flavor we loved to feast upon,
crystalline, wild-found water.

Our hearts delighted
in drinking winter itself.

© 2025 Raven | Jasmine on the Grave. All rights reserved.