The world wears its winter robe outside my window.
I tap my pointer finger against the windowpane.
I marvel at the season’s great gift to the world.
How can a boy of eight be expected to sleep through this?
My body is bundled against the brisk and frigid air.
I step softly into the snow, leaving a deep footprint.
I stare silently out at snow everywhere.
I smile and trudge down the snowy path.
I lay in the lawn alone.
My limbs swing back and forth to form an angel silhouette.
I lift my eyes to the sky of this snow-clouded night.
Painted pink and so playful, I sense it smile back.
Then I am roused by a loud crack.
I stand to see a man with a shovel and a glare.
Locks of his gray hair whip in the fierce gusts
As he shovels a path on our sidewalk.
I stand and go to him; he stops his work and turns.
He looks me in the eye and pats me on the head.
“Go inside, you’ll catch a chill.
You can play more in the morning.”
Without another word, he walks away but then he turns around.
I obey his command without a fight and return inside.
I enter without a sound, and set my boots down to dry.
I head upstairs to catch a final glimpse.
I walk to my window to see him cross the street.
He seems to vanish in a whipping snowy wind.
Confused and mystified, I crawl under my covers and try to sleep.
I ponder who this man could be until my mind begins to dream.
Sometimes I still think of him, on an icy winter night.
With my own son in my arms, I step outside and bask
In the glory of the snow as it cloaks everything.
His eyes aglow, now he too marvels at the winter moonlight.
By Jonathan Francesco