Rural Winter

The mud cracks a little under my shoes
but they hold solid. Ice as waterproffing.
I wonder if Cinderella's shoes were made of ice
instead of glass.  The windows of the house
on the other side of the valley
glint gold in the sun.  I imagine a woman
knitting or spinning yarn
and wonder if she is looking at our windows
dark against the dark wooded hill.
What does she imagine we are doing?
The path comes to an end
where the sun has melted the ice
a pool of mud stands in the way
I turn back. I will never reach her.