Frosty mug on a hot day

That frosty child-sized mug
brought by a car-hop was balm
after a long drive seeing sights
on winding Rocky Mountain roads.

In Sonsonate, I had my first raspado,
so much better than a snow cone,
shaved ice reminding me of home
when Mom defrosted the deepfreeze
or Dad scraped the windows
of the Ford, blasting the heater
to melt the lace for a spyhole.

In Virginia, the first freeze
tames persimmons’ bite
but rarely nips the nose; still,
hot cocoa is just as nice
when there’s no frost
except Robert.

(Sorry, VJ, I couldn’t help myself!)