Writ in Snow

 

Writing names in the snow with my grandson,

we celebrate our temporality

before wind, wandering eyes, history,

which appears fleeting as mountain snow-melt

or roadside plough-sludge down in the valley.

Yet a child breathes in breaking rays of dawn

topping a hill, stunned by golden sunlight

bejeweling oak, elm, black birch, cherry trees.

When trees, laden with their blooming leaves, wave

their pennants with such excess of beauty,

they seem to whisper of red revelry

like susurration of grass by a stream.

The severity of winter gleans snow

with poignant, icicle-blue memories.