Diamond shards tap the glass,
and wind whistles through cracks
in the window panes.
I resentfully pull on my boots
to shovel snow.
I call my 9 year old son,
"want to help me?"
"No thanks," he says,
wandering to his room
to draw a treehouse
build an electric circuit
read Captain Underpants.
I wish I were so free.
But as I zip my puff daddy coat,
my father with his crooked back
steps forth from the darkened room where he sat,
looks into my eyes
for the first time this visit and says,
"Son, I wish I could join you,"
then turns back into the dark.
I open the door and step into the night.
The snow slants across the streetlights
and stings my cheeks.
Lightning flashes in the sky,
and thunder rumbles through the darkness.
I carve paths in the snow,
reveling in how
white clouds of powder fly
like angels.