No snow
In New York City.
Three years.
Not cold neither.
Yesterday
Snow.
Two inches
Cold.
Not Omaha cold -40.
20 degrees Fahrenheit cold.
And sunny.

The wind cruel cold
I enter Fort Greene Park.
The snow trampled by thousands and thousands of feets.
Each step immortal in the cold.
Steps atop steps
Like first city of Troy.
Buried beneath
The other Troys.

The slope down from the Monument
Snow flattened by sleds.
Hundreds of sleds
Thousands of shouts of glee.

This morning
Nothing but me and the sun and the snow.
The wind
And the cold.

Remember
Blackstrap Hill
Falmouth
Maine
1957
Five years old
With my brother, sister, and father.
No sun.
A gray sky.
None of us cold.
Inside our parkas not cold
Children from Maine are never cold
Until the sun goes down.

We trudge through knee-deep snow.
Dragging a toboggan and a sled.
The top of Blackstrap
I stand on the toboggan.
It slides slowly over the snow.
I put out my arms
For balance.
Picking up speed.
My father shouts,
“Jump.”
I don’t see why.

More speed
I fly
Faster and faster
Children in my path
I can’t stop
I can’t fall
I only fly.

At the bottom of the hill
A young girl
In my path.
No stopping
A straight line to the girl.
Shut my eyes.
No thud. No scream.
The toboggan comes to rest.
Open eyes
Step off
People laughing
Not my father.

“Go to the car.”

I went, the girl smiled, I smiled back
The station wagon was locked.
I sat on the snow
Cold, the air cold, the snow cold.
An hour later
My father, brother, and sister
Dragging the toboggan and sled.
My father pulled me to my feet.
“Sit in the front. I’ll turn on the heat.”
Full blast all the way to Falmouth Foresides.

Not like today
Out the wind
In the sunlight
Fort Greene Park
Snow underfoot
The first snow in three years
But the same as Blackstrap,
Because as my father said,
“There are two seasons in Maine.
The season of good sledding
And the season a bad sledding.”
And there is a lot of truth in those words
Especially with more snow coming
In two days.
More
Good sledding ahead.