Toddlers teeter on the hollowed trunks and sport with juts of ice.
'Cross boulder bridges, flouting rapids, hop the agile blond and beige.
Yet in close chase, for or found, and on uneven ground, they’ll slip.
Clots in black and rose bespatter tans and whites.
Though clouds may cope the flights of cubs and fawns in torrents spirit laden,
steps shan’t be erased, where o’er plight’s edge they’re furrowed.
Would least the cliff lay lad to nestle upon drifts of pedals fallow
or as cradled by green swaths of summer blades.
For if to hope, the whelp when bade need but renounce a bed of clover,
might a father’s beckon stern retrieve the slain.
But scolds can echo no reprieve where o’er forever’s precipice
the yearling brown has left the seasons scarlet stained.
Though with the day’s advance, a glance would chance the fact all tracks do fade,
in the havens gray, in every trace, we dawdle.
It’s the cleft that blanched a mother’s face. Bereft, her tears are gained.
And blood ‘s been shed till never, like the rains.