“Gymnopédies No. 3”

This sunlight on snow.

This decrescendo

of covered stumps & brush —

stop for it.

Stop before the sled end-

             over-ends down

             the chin of the hill —

the way it always will

at the rock ⅔ of the way down.

Stop & shiver in it: the ring

             of snow inside gloves,

             the cusp of red forehead

like a sun just waiting to top

the hill. Every ill-built

             snowball waiting to be thrown,

             every bell-shaped angel

stamped over the brown leaves.

When my daughter ranges

             in winter, she works

every dazzling angle —

             the crestfallen pinecones,

             the grizzled beards

of bushes in the morning,

a furnace’s windup huffing

             in this throat-

             clearing of snow.