My grandson likes to play in the snow.
He doesn’t know I have a book
To write, so he walks
Like Sunday all over this old farm
Chasing the creek, searching
For Lewis or Clark, plops down
To make a body print, tosses handfuls
Of himself in the air like confetti.
I guess I let myself forget
What it was to be three, to be
Concerned with now more than
What could be. I stick to the old white
Fence as if protecting thoughts,
Wait on the future while words
Go neglected. Through the fog and sunlight
I hear “Poppy! Poppy!” but my mind
Has wandered so far and this poem
Has reached its end because even though
There are no tears I’ve run out of metaphors.