Writing names in snow with my grandson,
we celebrate our temporality
before wind, wandering eyes, history,
which appears fleeting as mountain snow-melt
or roadside plough-sludge in the valley.
When children breathe breaking rays of dawn
topping a hill, stunned by golden sunlight
bejeweling oak and elm, what do they think?
When trees, laden with 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.