I am learning from a six-year-old
the finer points of snow.
We trudge, booted, crunching through
a top layer of sleet-glazed crust
that sandwiches powder-dry snow between it
and an icy sheet below.
It’s terrible for snowballs and snowmen,
but great for forts, especially after I scrape
and chop those icy strata off the walk and drive.
My young companion gleefully collects jagged blocks
and stacks them in a semi-circle, around
a cleared-out hollow in a bank by a tree.
We hurl frozen ammunition at each other –
I deliberately hit the walls and dramatically grumble
about his sturdy fortification. He giggles with pride.
After the obligatory snow angels, he runs inside,
a powdered-sugar donut with legs.

Next day, we attempt snowmen again –
the warming sun has transformed our medium
to more malleable material.
Up goes the statue, in the classic style –
three rolled spheres with stone eyes, carrot nose,
stick arms, and found headgear –
but we can’t stop there.
At the young fellow’s insistence, we construct
an entire family – Mom, Dad, son, and snow-dog.
They stand regally, greeting passing cars on our street.

These two afternoons have made me appreciate
the nuances of snow – why the Eskimos have
so many words for it. There are almost as many
forms of the stuff as one can name.
And taking these raw materials for a fort,
an igloo, anthropomorphic sculpture,
or whatever human fancy can design,
still holds a certain joy of craft
that no number of traffic reports,
school closings, or Doppler-radar weather maps
could ever teach me to understand.

01/22/2002

Posted on 01/22/2002
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt