We toss what is loose in our pockets.
The extra wishes will make up for
the wrong wishes we are likely to make.
You laugh out loud and the winter
holds your breath in small bunches
of white roses. Even in the snow
you are springtime, each tooth a petal,
each step a step somewhere I cannot go.
I am so much older than you,
and it is below freezing. I ask can we leave?
But It’s a fountain you say,
and I cannot argue, it is a fountain, so we stay,
then start off. Back to the house
your small feet leave prints
on the mirror of snow. Your hands
crumple up the white
sheets like paper poems you don't like
anymore, and you toss them
at your mother who keeps track
of your losses, your failures
to hit, you keep count of your wins
on your fingers, then your toes,
and a knee cap, then you're tired,
black circles rising up to the surface
like trout just under the ice. But before we go
and we cannot go before this,
you turn while standing in the somewhere
between my kiss and the front porch
and take a bow
as the air, the trees, the cold
stands and sits like a crowd doing a wave in your honor.