River Cuts the Snow

I sit on bench and stare
Through glass with chipped paint pane
Too dusty to view the fields
In which you played last fall
Born third week of winter
You lit these fields with gold
This fire burst in folds
To who does the curled peak call?
Then the wind stole you, my child
As quickly as you’d come
It was as if this never was
Where does this river run?
Gone like a gossamer puff on dale
As I listen to the ptarmigan sing
If we could imagine beyond such things
If it hadn’t been for AIDS
Hail falling in clumps like fists
Silver fox which dies before age
A gnarled pine which never fades
Dew which sits on lotus at noon
So fine a man you’d have made
I sit on bank a ghost’s shell
The fallen mallard lost to hope
I thought I heard you lost in this storm
As I watch river cut the snow

For my son, Kenneth
Joe Stern-McGovern