Is this really me making a snowball?
Or is it some routine childhood relic?
Showing my three-year old how to-do-it:
compacting snow, scrunching it into ice,
so that one can launch a circle to air,
or feel its splattering impact on cheek.
We toss snowballs like cartoon characters,
yet cold frost weighing on our nose is real.
The heated life indoors appears more real.
The woodstove becomes a philosopher,
wise with dryness, delicious warmth of air.
Impatient toes can’t get enough of stove.
An old man can’t get enough of childhood;
a child can’t get enough of the word would.