our hand-dug snow fort
we dreamed would last all winter —
rain in the forecast

the weight of deep snow —
mom pausing in the doorway
after tucking me in

falling backwards
into deep drifts of snow —
angel impressions

sweeping sweet gum balls
giving the snow a clear space
to pile up on

a woman rides by —
shouts Happy Chinese New Year!
over her shoulder

we pause in a doorway
forgetting what we came for —
waning winter moon

fog over the lake —
a blue heron disappears
even as I watch

birds trying new notes
to better welcome the light —
every morning good

all we want now
is ice enough for skating  —
to push and just glide

one more thing he loved
that I never asked about —
classical guitar

what sort of hollow
can I find to curl into?
(the base of your neck)

melting hope —
the snow I'd been longing for
turned once more to rain

snow falling softly
onto the frozen lake —
a secret I already knew

so much more fear, now,
in fevers and scratchy throats —
one more frozen day

classic sugar cookies —
we admire each other's
penguins and snowflakes

rain and more rain —
at night we tell the stories
of blizzards gone by

well below freezing —
we move towards the fire
holding our hands out

cold winter wind —
which of spring's fledglings
have made it this far?

my father and I
build a pinhole camera —
the whole world sneaks in

my mother's made-up songs
folded at the foot of the bed —
winter takes a break

use this day
the coldest in three years
to set up your greenhouse

deep enough
into winter that some parts
never do feel warm

is the rain slowing?
we catch ourselves
watching the puddles

sunshine whittling snow
while my hands encircle
a mug of cocoa

morning bird tracks
disappearing into the cold —
snow still falling

snow clouds rolling in —
I remember my father
pulling my sled

ice glazed roads
leaving us no way to stop —
the ER fills up

the fox and I find
that we walk a bit faster —
sub-zero morning

still making room for
our memory of snow geese —
how they kept coming

coming true again
fingers tangled in her hair —
my long-held wish

learning anew
the ways we move together —
unwrapping a year