Snow


Late December: my father and I
Are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
On his shoulders in the bitter wind:
Scraps of white paper
Blow over the railroad ties.

My father liked
To stand like this, to hold me
So he couldn’t see me.
I remember
Staring straight ahead
Into the world my father saw;
I was learning
To absorb its emptiness,
The heavy snow
Not falling, whirling around us.


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Snow