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.