The Engraver, First Draft, In Need of Advice

It snowed the day my mother taught me to engrave She held a waxy green leaf between her mittened fingers And mapped each yellow vein with her eager eyes All filled up to the lashes with yellow Scraping away the green, catching it under her fingernails She found my name like some ancient code in its shallow skin White winter sun tentatively fingered the letters And the wind took them elsewhere Towards the great grey clouds above Meanwhile our feet lay planted to the ankles In something cold and heavy.