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To Daddy, Mama, Billy-Bro, Punky and Massachusetts....


Glazed, deep snow, virgin crunched under my aimless walk
as I idle rambled onward through a vacant, bare-treed park.
Sun was so high that its brightness flashed sparkling pastels.
Fleeting blue spots danced randomly and surrounded me
with images of us until old tears appeared and newly swelled.

In and out, snow to house, young you and me in tender years
of igloos, snowmen, skating, snow ball laughing and fighting,
in animal mittens Mama knitted and snow suits tightly snug.
On some far stage, I feel sure we are still close and at play,
but today I have no smile to curl, just winter’s bleak weight
from tons of missing and reminiscing for my ill, lost brother.

Climbing a hill covered in deep snow reminded me how thick
my own thoughts were sadness bogged, of love now long gone
that was once joyously caught and I swear that hill mocked me.
My legs moved on their own accord as memories of other hills
caught my heart and held it painfully, eloquently still-scored.

Looking up as though Daddy could see me, remember with me
the hand holding and hill rolling he showed me decades ago
as his delight from falling snow created and molded my own.
Years later it was my son’s hand he held, watching icicles melt
while from a distance I watched their silence spill laughter
and their sled fly hills, growing a bond now many winters gone.

At hills peak, I felt my aches that winter etched as pains’ crafter.
Memories where finality marks each season, hurt me most of all.

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