Enough?
Enough?
Coming down the hill through deep snow,
I find a Breughel day.
I feel air as crisp and as breeze-free
as it had seemed in the dried paint.
One turkey buzzard soars
above the tallest tree,
where each night scores
will flap themselves to sleep.
There are no children nor any lake
to slide on --or fall through ice--
and wound a parent’s heart
with grief too deep to heal.
The young stag that with inborn skill
clears the scraped road
has nothing to fear; though
it’s the season, I bear no gun or bow.
High-tailing it, he dares me
to chase him into the dense growth.
No matter, for I am gob-stopped--
by the paint, the words, by all the stuff--
including a parent’s whispered fear,
“O, Son, isn’t reading about it enough?”
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