Beautiful snow and
babies, about old enough to stand with help
and curious, shocked at newness enough
to walk; Don't stray too far from mommy.
These are winter. Ordering tea
at lunchtime, or some time
between then and dinner, weighing
snow between fingers, like
a different way of doodling
though wanting--more profusely now--
to snap photos, to hear dogs smiling
at the snow, to scoop up a handful
of coats and set them down
next to love, which is a deer
wisping at the sight of man.
It is like figuring out the hardest thing
about almonds. Spreading seeds
around the ground and trusting
nature to go about its business.
Music is a more modern way to
peruse a street at night, or
grasp some figure close and bundle up.
Soon, a letter to the editor will read:
the most difficult thing about almonds is that
time won't let them weighed inside your hands.
People walk away from my snow-dusted street
like laughing potatoes rolling down hills.