So long as she knows where
the flashlight is—another ice lantern

has disappeared into a trough
where memories of what winter

used to be have begun to collect:
ice fishing parties, outdoor hockey

games, x-country skiing, the porch
doubling as an extra freezer. So long

as the torch continues to burn
against the slate sky. So long as

the riddle keeps searching
for its hook, which slipped

into/onto

this ice melt mess of a lake
just as February began

to break through. So long
as she runs in shorts in the dead

of what used to be the longest
season in Minnesota. So long

as the other shoe dangles
precariously from a confused

birch branch. So long
as she leaves

messages in black
and blue ink on every flat surface

for her future self
who may not remember

any of this. So long as she can
still hear that strangely familiar

melodic voice: Do I dare
be so bold as to ask what’s next?