Five inches of snow
in the farmhouse yard.
Around 1800, these stones became a home.

The river’s just over the ridge
The pony’s in the barn
And my snow coat is zipped.
Its hood is a tunnel.

I am five
And this day is as far as I can see.
After playing my drums, I walk out into the silence
Snowflakes as big as my eyes.

The snow squeaks beneath my rubber boots.
The milk truck arrives.

Then Dad puts up the big bulb Christmas lights on the lamppost
And wraps the ones with the bubbles around the inside tree.

He sets up the old train set with the engine that smokes.
We make snow with cotton
and build a village so there are people to hear the train whistle.

Dad lights a fire in the front hall fireplace.
He talks to me through a walkie talkie and my eyes light up.
I ask him to quit smoking.

And he will.

I am five.


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