At the Greek theater in the park the snow's in broken

concentric rings. Snow grips the north side

of every hill, not willing yet

to turn back into air. This is the mud season,

almost as warm outside as in the house,

when every unmoving thing throws

a negative shadow and we go walking ankle-

deep in the earth. This is the interchange

that lets us look at the world as a mother

again, maybe as that young woman

across the street shoveling snow into the sun,

or as her baby daughter trampling it for the last time

this winter, knowing her mother is

too busily happy to stop or even scold her.