To Andrew: At three months
Look, the snow curls like a ruffled scarf
around our neighbor's shed and cedars,
they've donned their long gloves to join us
this fine evening with the fence
in their Spanish shawls. What do you make
of the little waves the wind makes and the way
your sled bumps and scrapes up the hill?
I put the mail under your feet, the paper under
your head, you open your mouth, let a few notes
go, and you're a coachman rattling your reins,
salting the night, you measure
the sky's circumference, and you're the boy
on the corner ringing your bell, waving your arms,
shouting the news to the dark, speeding world.