sapsicle

the portmanteau sounds like something she has assembled
packing words together like wet snow between fuschia mittens
flimsy as the clouds brewing at each breath she heaves
trudging through knee-high mountains of snow
and you think about the inequity of the mountains we climb
because the snow scarcely swells above the tops of your boots.

her bright eyes meet yours and
you take the cone in your hands
hold up to the light
fluorescent fracturing of sunbeams through crystal lattice and
tenaciously touch the frozen offering to your tongue.
ice crystals meld, dissolve into
sugar crystals meld, slide into
taste receptors, key in the lock.

and the sweetness erupts
lips tip upwards, and you
politely say, “thank you” but inside your childhood
has just stirred from its slumber
and you are racing through a flurry of memories of
snow angels and sled hills and skates and
paging through the “K” section in a yellowed dictionary
on a hunt for claustrophobia
after climbing into a snow tunnel you plowed at recess.

and then snowdrops begin to drift from the heavens
and you tilt your chin up
sapsicle wand still in hand
sugar beads clinging to reddened fingers
and you stick your tongue out like a fool
and that pink-mittened little girl grins and follows suit
and you stand there
melting magic on your tongues.

and on the footprint-mosaiced map of frozen ground
you can trace your steps all the way back
lumberjack loafers and Barbie boots,
trace your steps all the way back
to when lumberjack was just
hi, I’m Jack, I’m this many years old
— holding up four chubby fingers —
and my favorite color is snowman-white.

and you think:
this is where the magic lies.
this is why I love this world.
this is what I wish to preserve.

—