Rolling Snowmen

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I can’t remember the last time I rolled

a snowman. I would have been a young girl,

wearing my hair in two long brown braids,

and blissfully naïve to what was coming,

ignorant of the fact that childhood can

end so abruptly,

and without warning, explanation, or apology.

Had I been wiser, I would have cherished

everything about that day:

I’d be able to tell you the color of the sky,

the rate of snow fall,

the size of the flakes,

the thickness of the pack,

and if it were wet or a little too dry.

Was it particularly cold?  Had my mother 

knitted my cap, or scarf?

Was the snow still falling while I made him,

or had it stopped?

How big was he? 

Certainly, I used a carrot for the nose. 

Rocks for eyes?  Was he smiling?

Did someone help? Younger sisters? The neighbor-kids?

And, what did it all smell like? There were pines 
in the front yard – one very big.

Is that where I learned that each species of pine 

has a different odor? Was I wrapped

in a perfume of pine and snow and happiness?

**

Now I’m going to show my age, and maybe some experience.

I have chosen to apprentice to

that which teaches me

to cherish every moment:

uncertainty

wonderment

gratitude.

The sky is platinum.

The snow is falling fast;

a dizzying cascade of thick, wet flakes

forming fluffy biceps on the boughs

of the evergreens, which,

yes, I can smell from the threshold of

my open front door – made of solid mahogany.

A male cardinal just called out.

I want to be sure to acknowledge him -

this crimson guardian of winter hope.

After all,

this could be my last poem.

Or, yours.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"

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