SNOWMEN

Already, Mother, you have come to
the snow scene. You, who
I still see as strong and brown-limbed
in a sundress
now come to visit, pale
inside layers of handknit sweaters
from Iceland or Peru--
distances I hunger for,
countries you will never see.
There are bits of grey ice
you cannot shake from your hair,
certain fears that have drawn
shadows on your face.
But there is beauty too--
the drifts that slope against
our old house, the curve
of your hand holding a teacup.
Do you remember the snowmen
we used to make
when I was growing up?
We gave them my old scarves, the
felt hats you wore when you were young
and worked in the city.
The glorious time, you called it--
or did not call it--but I knew anyway.
I always imagined the snowmen alive and sad
at the end of winter
as if just before mud season,
melting, one eye missing,
they realized who they were.