USA

carlos_martinez@antiochla.edu

First snow

First snow of the season while we slept,
sparrows in the bushes feathered with it,
boys rising early to stare
out of the window and my sleep interrupted
by squeals, by feet on hardwood floors,
by small hands gliding down to land
hawk-like on stubbled cheeks,
a fluttering.

And waking and stumbling and rubbing
sleep-bleared eyes I move beyond
bedroom darkness to look at the miracle
that appeared overnight and find young bodies
getting dressed in hats, boots and gloves,
hear the groan of door hinges, the shush
of my slippered feet,
feel the air outside chill and wet
as boys disappear
into heaven's cold manna.

First days
it will make no forms but twisted forms.
Louise Gluck

Take your small child into his school,
ignore his wide eyes,
his chaste mind
dazzled by icy light,
his small hands balled into fists
and how he trembles in his shoes.

You mistake his silence for gratitude at this introduction
then you leave.

When he comes home,
himself again, it seems,
when he goes into his room to play with toys suddenly too small
for those small hands,
smile,
think back to your first day.

When he emerges at dinner time,
miniscule, shrunken into himself,
eating nothing, wanting nothing
but the soothing sounds of TV cartoons,
you take it as a sign
everything's okay.

When in the lightless morning quiet,
he rises silently to dress,
then leaves carrying a pack filled with picture books,
a lunch,
when his small footsteps fade away, their echoes precious,
and at the end of the day
you don't recognize who he is,
you tell yourself he's growing up.

It is then you realize someone you cherish is missing,
that he who returns after the sun's gone down is just an echo,
a blurred print
of you
in your early years.

© All Copyright, Carlos Martinez.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.