The winters of my childhood live
in a globed kingdom, an unsullied world
of snow forts two heads higher
than we stood; long slopes
padded with flurried day upon
flurried day. Time a bright tunnel.
I am losing count
of the seasons
our snow blower languishes
in a corner of the garage, still
shiny red, its paddles at the ready.
Yet no great white sprays arc
to the lawn. No snowmen
or angels.
In this long interlude
since snow draped
from tree branch to roof
to street, since ice prismed
the morning, I miss the spell
of that particular blue-white light
borrowed from the skin
along a newborn's spine;
bottle of milk on a moonlit sill.
Paper-white, pure, that kingdom,
unmarked even by
woodland animal or tire tread.
Now that I am advised
to avoid extremes of heat and cold,
and any excess of excitement
I long for that commotion
in my chest, where my heart kicks
as I clutch the sides of a silver saucer,
plunging and spinning
at the same time toward
some steep, bottomless joy.
