The Gold Key

One winter's day, when the ground lay deep in snow, a poor boy was sent to the forest with a sled to bring back wood…
So perilously cold was he,
and so far from home, he must use
some of the wood he'd gathered, to make
a fire — or not return at all.
As he dug through snow to clear
a space, he found a gold key — and deeper
still, a keyhole set in earth.
His fingers being near-frozen,
he made his whole aching body
circle the lock, like an ox turning
a millstone. Then he was in a cavern
lit by small fires, and gradually —
which is the best way — he grew warm.
Above were stalactites full of
images and stories, all slowly
melting… Was the boy dreaming this
as he lay merging with snow, or was he
far beneath earth in a haven
where ice and fire meet? Did he in fact
light a snow-fire and crouch by it,
with entranced eyes gazing up
at white needles shrouding fir trees —
imagining the heat he felt
touch each of them, so that those great
pagodas ran with silver light?
Did he make it home with the wood —
to sit by the hearth with his people,
and drink soup till his toes curled, watching
snow whirl like feathers shaken
from a quilt? And was there a gold key
printed on his palm as he sat
listening to the stories while
silently remembering;
or did he decide to tell about
the cave of stories shining through ice —
millenia of stories melting,
and he catching the drops on his tongue?