Snow Angel

there is snow
not the sugar coating,
barely covering,
broken promise
we usually get; but inches, feet,
enough to bury the patio table
leaving a cone on the round top
and pyramids on each chair

a proper snow.
there is a coat, and mittens, and boots
to maneuver
over a second layer of skin
and the thickest sweater.
the hood is pulled down tight.

to the tire swing–
the worn down path below it
myth. it invites, with indifference
and is destined
to be an ornament to the day.

there are angels,
a row of grace,
each one marred in some way
by its makers’ retreat–except
the last, with its snow-burnt face,
an angel in creation