I
On my way to the woods, I watch
children on their backs in newly fallen
snow, arms and legs moving side
to side. Leaping to their feet,
sparkling with crystal dust, they look
down to find their angel, a white shadow.
I remember cold pressing on me like a hand
while looking into an endless arc of azure
as snow-colored clouds gave chase.
Now, I feel warmth from rising joy,
knowing these boys and girls will feel
the same into old age whenever they see
angelic impressions in fresh powder.
II
Beneath the trees I find scratched
circles, lines and angles drawn
by desiccated plant stalks and seedhead
plumes driven by the wind’s insatiable
whim, crypto-writing in language
I don’t understand, but ache to learn.
I follow white-footed mouse tracks,
tiny four-print, bounding impressions
connected by tail-dragged lines
until they abruptly end at a broad, wing
and-tail feathered snow angel
whose message is clear, as indelible
as a child’s ephemeral imprints.