Even the babies are not themselves up there,
just playing in the snow, letting
the mountain peaks disguise them.
The babies laugh at words of loss.
They laugh at thoughts of words.
To think that you can liken ice
to such a delicate liqueur!
Read Yeats on gold.
It’s the not-so-human
we should be focusing on.
All those perfect babies…
to show that absence, loss,
etc. are best survived
with a pinch of salt…
Yet, how they pause, how they pose.
They like the ice down in
their diapers, too, you know—
it’s like pee, only colder.
Concede snow is a poise
between the meadow and the sun,
that essence of absence is
always best served when empty and when cold,
where shapes of babies smile and gurgle—
just a little stream beneath the snow,
just the babble the water makes—
so fragile, so all aglow.
Even the babies, a gentle