Run

(Just a quick poem I worked on yesterday, after a vague sort of dusting of snow.)

The snow was much deeper then

and you and I were much younger.

But when it glittered at just the right height,

and the powder of it was just so

we’d run.

Leaving nothing
but sprays of crystalline glitter and prints behind us

we’d run,

when good folk were working, cooking, studying

and generally intent on busy-ness.

That might have been me too,

when I was even younger still,

cocooned beneath cinder and cement,

looking outside and longing,

but afraid.

The snow is not right yet.

The leaves are mostly gone.

But the sky still has not made up its mind.

Eventually it will,

and when it does

I’ll run.