Glacial Erratic

I remember when 
it was a world 
of snow, our backyard

picnic-table covered so high 
our eight-year-old sat 
in its middle,

snow on all sides,
on ground, on hedges, 
him a reverse George 
Segal sculpture,

two-tone blue coat and powder
blue earmuffs, boy in a sea of white,
his new puppy looking up, questioning,

waiting for me to shovel 
a corridor to the corners 
to do his business. 

It was that kind of winter, 
we lost ourselves and everything 
but the whites of our eyes. 

Over days,
then hours it retreated—
the turtle sandbox face first

errant tennis balls 
frisbees finally retrieved, 

each new morning 
like a time lapse,

glacier pulling back 
the curtain, bits
of broken toys, ground zero 

of our little existence, 
calling me 
to pick every shred

and shard that held us
through the long winter, 

the clearing as if

one man could save this green earth—
spring carrying forward
this erratic life.