Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 16: Last Snow

Last Snow

When I woke this morning,
a thin, white pelt of snow covered the earth.
And I remembered how
you went out to play
in the first snow--
even less, a sugar-sanding
over the brittle November earth
that you tracked through and
scraped into grass-furred snowballs.

Today you were content
to stay inside and read.

Firsts hold all the allure:
First breath.
First cry.
First smile.
Tooth
Sit.
Clap.
Crawl.
Word.
Step.
First letters crooked across a page
of toothy red construction paper.
First day of school.
First loose tooth.

I do not know
if this wet April snow
is the last for the year. By
lunchtime it had yielded,
leaving behind a hint of green
in the winter-brown grass.

It is like this with lasts.
You don't know they are
until later. They fade away,
leaving behind something new.
Footsteps overshadow the last crawl.
Sentences eclipse the last babble.

Even as I drove out
this morning, green spring stirring
beneath a world furred white,
I remembered my skis,
dusty in the barn
never once touched this winter,
and the skates
and the sleds
and the snowshoes.
Had we used them enough?
Did we make the most
of what we had?