I see him now

Looking at his hands

Swallowed by mittens

Too thick for little fists.

They are flecked

with spots of white,

a scattering of winter’s dust

Or the ash from a fire- long dead.


He lifts one hand,

To explore with his tongue

In a hot lick,

Or kiss.

His eyes smile

When he tastes winter

for the first time,

Sucking its sweetness

as he laughs,

Leaning his golden head back

Catching flakes with the bare skin of his face.

Spinning, the sky circling his eyes

the ground is transforming

Around him

Fading white