Because we all want to write more poems.
on the purposes of poetry (winter)
eight years old and sledding
in the back yard with your dad
I watch you through the window,
want to capture this moment for you
so I take a photo --
and someday you'll look at it --
but you won't feel
the ice in the air, the very ground
frozen to itself, chilly flakes falling on your head,
getting stuck in your hair and eyelashes
melting on your tongue
you won't hear the whoosh, rush
in your ears as you fly
down the small slope
to the edge of our
dormant garden beds,
their green potential covered
in a haze of frost and snow
you won't hear your own voice
hysterical with laughter, catching
your breath, so cold, so cold
as you lay in the snow
making an angel
and then roll over and draw on it with a stick
transforming it into a hawk
and then an eagle
"daddy, daddy, look!"
you won't see any of that in a picture
but I take one anyway, braving the snow
to frame a close-up of you leaping,
manage to capture you in motion
in mid-air, about to land on your sled:
wanting only to feel
all of this again
- Jennifer Dixey's Shared Poems
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