A child who rides a two-wheeler,
swings himself since he was 2,
and climbs up like a goat
to the highest point of everything,
has dictated a letter to Santa
requesting a Pogo Stick.
Already he bounds higher and higher,
Surviving on peas and rice,
Home made pizza crust, banana oatmeal pancakes
he mixes, pours on the griddle and flips
himself (with just a little help from Mommy).
The muddy ground
on which we live this time of year
won't likely taste a snowflake
on its brown tongue.
But before the calendar says March 1
it will give birth to shoots of green life-
bulbs planted by Caleb's small hands
three autumns in this yard.
Even as bulbs grow
in the grey and brown surroundings
the Sierras with their snowy jagged peaks
will peek over the fire station roof
at the top of our hill
and invite us up for Caleb's first ski.
With lunch, a thermos,
warm dry clothes,
he'll see the fourth season
the way his parents remember it.
When we return to the Valley floor
the bulbs will be closer to showing
their stunning interiors.
We'll open a storybook and read
about A Snowy Day. Close our eyes
and dream about our tongues-
pink tulip petals-
catching cold snowflakes.
