The door swung slowly shut behind her
as she began maneuvering down the walk
with its daily coating of
ice and snow.
A cane (thicker than her wrist)
tested every step and let her proceed.
At a snowbank her right hand
knotted and cupped
And she smiled.
She moved faster now
though her back curved forward and
her knees never quite straightened.
In ten minutes’ time she reached a meadow
—a group of trees clinging
to a handful of leaves
marked the edge.
And below them was a bundle
of pristine houses which
creeped closer every year—
She turned toward the trees and
saw a troop of children
hurling snowballs and
protestation and pure fun,
and the field was dotted with
makeshift forts and makeshift flags
(mittens on sticks)
Every nose burned and every face flushed
and every eye spoke.
From across the street
a man looked out and saw his neighbor,
knee-deep in snow with
a clump of it in her hand,
and she was laughing.
“Huh,” he said, “imagine that.”
Which is exactly what she was doing.