We live a dull life in this matte forest. Navy blue broadcloth skirts above bare feet. We collect mushrooms for the perimeter of a fairy garden, write rhymes on tree bark, shoot marbles on a swept path, gather twigs for a fire, wade in shallow water while bread bakes, our charmed life on the broad canvas uneventful when viewed in passing. Museum-goers’ bits of stray gossip, useless to our timeless ears. We follow diversions, a deer to a field where we catch sight of and then touch something large and clear and cold. It reminds us of the hard lake we slid across one winter under light of a full moon. Would any other painting of this gallery stay as cold? We used to wear shoes and slide across that thing our parents called ice. This box in the sunlit field is size of a privy, hard as wood, with no sound when we knock. It drips. There is a tall pole in the center, with a hanging rope attached on top. At the bottom of the rope, there’s a round rock attached. We have heard our parents talk of tossing tether balls and winning, losing, fists slamming the ball to fly, still attached, full around the pole, spiraling shorter until it stops. Such a long wait for freedom as wildflowers grow around the dripping spot. We run to ask our parents how to plant the pole when it is free of ice. They say to bring and bouquet the nearest flowers, then sink the pole and abut it with rocks. Toss the ball gently for a season, until the anchor is secure. Come summer, we wildly side-arm our swing back to fling the ball forward. One of us bats the stone ball in return. Deer stop to watch our jousting as sweat drips down our white chemises both in moonglow and sunlight.