The field sparkles with Jack Frost.
You say it’s snowing
and I haven’t the heart to tell you
it’s not, not yet anyway.
Of course you can’t remember
the last time you saw real snow,
you were only a few months old.
I held you up to the window
and said, ‘See that white stuff,
they’re called snowflakes.’
You started laughing,
a real proper little laugh
at all that reflected brilliance.
Yesterday I tried to cure your hiccups
with peek a boo surprises.
Distracting you with visions
of imaginary butterflies
then shouting to make you jump.
You liked this game so much,
you wanted to try it on me,
to see if you could make
my boo boo disappear.
I seemed so startled
by your enormous roar,
you were confident it had worked
and insisted on checking.
Your voice suddenly small
as you said, ‘No, it’s still there.’
Mastectomy scar sadly
not frightened away
by your best jungle lion.
Still I tickle you as I tell you
maybe we can make a snowman
for Christmas, a magic one that talks,
and all our faith in miracles
is completely restored