Boy at Play

Boy at Play

In certain bands of sun he sees the motes
Of snow.  It’s just a flurry yet the boy
Exults—arms wide and turning pirouettes.
As seen through barely open slats, he seems
To flicker like a fifties cowboy show.

Your fingers thaw around the coffee mug
From Kona, one of many souvenirs
From one of many trips. The thermostat
Clicks and the vents rasp. On colder days
Like these, the rafters slouch—contract and creak.

The boy flails angels in a quarter-inch
Of flakes, stomps tracks in your viola bed.
The frost will kill what ragged sneakers won’t;
So let him play, you think, just let him play.
You peel the blinds to catch a somersault.

It’s a long life but a short game, you say
Out loud, your words like ghosts on gelid glass.
He stops, looks up, not at you but the sky.
It’s empty, blue; and at his feet are mats
Of wet grass like a ripening of mold.

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