Cramp: First-Snow

“Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.”

The boy – no more than twelve or eleven – sits between
two great piles of first-snow, shovel against the paneling. It’s cold out –
but not cold enough he can’t shovel snow. He’s curled around a mug,
gloves discarded on the sidewalk. He can feel his fingers again,
almost, pressed against the hot ceramic. He sighs.
He doesn’t mind much. It doesn’t snow often.
It’s just a week before Christmas.
Dad says it’s his Michigan blood. The boy shrugs. He doesn’t
care, particularly. The snow’s cold. He’s cold.
It’s a happy couple.
Not that a cup of fresh hot cocoa is unwelcome either.
Mother does know best, after all.

Ten years. The man – no more than twenty one, twenty – sits between
shoulders and shopglass, tiding the first-snow blizzard. It’s cold out –
too risky for traveling. He’s hunched over the keyboard,
laptop balanced on a paper tower. His fingers ache
from typing so much for so long. He sighs.
He doesn’t mind much. He doesn’t relax often.
It’s just a week before the deadline.
His editor calls. The man shrugs. He doesn’t
care, particularly. The poetry’s rushed. He’s rushed.
It’s a fitting couple.
Not that a few lazy hours over a cup of joe is unwelcome either.
It’s almost good as Mom’s peppermint-stick cocoa.

The boy and man smile against snowflakes,
sitting between and coaxing fingers,
sharing first-snow.

“I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all.”

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(28 lines; 9 December 2009 Writer’s Cramp quote-prompt “Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood. ~Andy Goldsworthy”; end quote from T.S. Eliot’s “Portrait of a Lady”.

Edited 2 January 2009; evened out line lengths, finally understood the meaning of Pound's "condensation".)