Snow

Thinking of Sweden, the sky fluttered 
its dark-browed paleness shut 
just once each winter. And settled 
on us. Mornings wore afternoon. 
We’d ease out on a crust of light 
already bushes had grown through,

floating our footprints, pleased 
with the fat sky sprawled replete. 
What to do with it? Stare?
Not enough, my daughter thought, 
nudging from sloth a fluffed 
plumpness weather sends

for reawakenings. Spades scraped 
slow arcs green around a tumbled dome. 
For her this was a kneeling someone 
to be coaxed or parted up 
with promises of buttons, a head.
Pride in our created self

lasted two, at most three days
then arms slumped in accelerated age. 
Eyes sank. In a drained landscape, 
fading slowest though: the man 
gathered from cold, something 
newmade that was the last to go.