The Snow Starts Again

The snow starts again. We put back on bibs
this night and plod to morning paths we made
in spite of others’ fat-coated horsing;
the neighbor kids slid just everywhere.
Halfway they squealed and tumbled off their sleds
that ran off course, not getting to hill’s end.
But my brother and I cut straight sled tracks,
smoothing the wet snow over and over
with careful runs. We did not join their antics
that shrilled through the valley’s open sky.

Now we return to our slick track tonight
without screaming children who do not know
the reason for such fast travel. We’ve cut
a path that starts from the dark forest’s edge,
so long there’s no eyeing the house windows
that seep light like churning, poisoned wounds,
no seeing inside some other track gone wrong
beyond our youthful knowing: more screaming
we want to flee, parents in their descent
down an ice-clad track to an unseen end.

We don’t speak. The heavy bed of snow
clasps its own dull light for us to see our way.
We scrunch together on the sled and pause
before we go. The valley holds its breath
for the flakes to whisper down and kiss us
on our eyelashes. We hold each other tight.
Our breath hangs like a question, then fades.
We lift our boots and start to slide slowly
till we slice in one clean, long lick, too fast
to steer without our morning tracks for guides.

We take the final drop with desperate speed
like free falling in dreams beyond control.
Our eyes water and our insides rise.
We scream, discerning the hill, frozen to ice,
will take us where it will take us, no concern
for some kids who made tracks. The sled glides
clear past the house. We ride until full stop
then sit in the blanket silence
and stare at the porch light: a terrible,
insistent eye to return back inside.