Underneath her, twigs tick. How thick
grass dawns on her plastic sled.
Her scoot over patches of snow grips
a stuck tantrum of stopping dead.
Rocks in palms—she signals potholes
in March, comes bellowing home, tarring
the air again. She goes, no speed, spin or shots
past trees, no snow to eat, no snowball wars,
no snow angels, no downhill, no vast forward
collapses or cracks from a boot to mouth.
She grows in thrill of lifted toes, of body north,
how weightless, how sky, how she landed round.
That immobile hour she dams the last melt, don’t,
she whispers, wait, and insists, wait still snow.