Poetry

Once

Once, when it was February

you tickled me under my

thick-as-sheep’s-wool fleece,

carried me over

snow mounds to silver ponds

where we skated far,

far across what seemed like

the edge of the winter, twirling

and racing, arms swinging

to and fro, while

cutting blades sliced the

coarse surface.

Now it is August.

We no longer skate, you

no longer play or tease or

clamber over snow heaped high

along the sides of roads, with me

weighted in your arms.

It is too hot now

and besides,

you left this place long before

shadows grew large in the midday

sun and icicles melted into

popsicles when the

ice cream truck began playing

its catchy tune.

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