Snow Angels

Snow on a cold day
is no good for making balls.
My son throws it anyway,

handfuls of powder
dispersing in plumes.
He does this many times,

enjoying himself,
unaware that madness
is repeating things

in the hope of different results.
Like making snow angels,
which I cannot do.

He falls on his back to show me,
cuts a billowy skirt
and Visitation wings with a wave

of happy limbs.
But it never works for me.
Watch as once again I make the print

of a small, splay-legged thing
scrabbling on its shell,
desperate for purchase.

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