Tuesday, April 7, 2015
It’s easy to make one,
lying on your back
on the newest snow.
You sweep your arms
up and down to make
a pattern that looks like wings.
Later you forget your creation,
go inside for hot chocolate.
That’s when she rises from the snow,
takes a feathery breath, tries out her wings.
She skims over frozen lakes,
like the faintest handwriting.
Later when you climb beneath the covers
she peers in through your frosty window,
happy you called her into the world.
from A Writing Kind of Day: Poems for Young Poets
Posted by Ralph Fletcher at 7:52 AM