What if the grass was still green and we had time to touch each other on strands of Lake Superior. What if when I called your name you came to me wearing shorts and sandals, with your hair growing long, and smiled to touch me. And the sun was up and the waves were so high they knocked us down. But the water was warm, so we stayed way past the dog walkers and the hikers, and sunbathers, we stayed and made love, if it was summer, we would. There would be no other way; we’d stay for hours on the smooth rocks. Or at least I like to pretend that is what would happen, if this were summer. It is not even fall when the leaves turn their reds and browns and pinks and oranges with the evergreens contrasting, and the big blue. Nor is it spring when the evergreens lose their needles. And the ground is covered in reddish brown little needles, and the ice shelves melt and the Canadian goose returns with his family. No, this is winter, and so there is not much to do, but crunch and slide as close as we can stand.