Originally written February 3, 2003
In the morning his daughter presented him with a photo.
He was newly wakened; she had been up for hours.
On mornings like these he likened waking to being born.
Vague memories of dreams he left like worlds behind him.
His eyes adjusted to the light; his mind unfocused.
“Do you remember this, Daddy?”
It was he
and his daughters on him
sliding down a snowbank.
No sleigh,
just him
as father and sleigh.
And instantly he felt joy,
was filled with joy,
became with their speed, by their speed, joy;
as matter approaching the speed of light becomes light.
And he saw her much younger than the young girl she was,
dressed as a star,
in a star-shaped snowsuit;
her head and limbs a five-pointed star
shaken by spasms of breath-stealing laughter.
And he cried
first from too much joy
then from too little.
