Early, I wake, expecting soft snow, a fast ski across the field, wonderland. It’s raining over the six inches that fell. Still, we go out early into the wet, we don’t want to wait for the weather to change. I put on snowshoes instead. It’s a hard slog. Fairly unpleasant, in fact. The landscape has changed, though. The dead leaves and sticks are covered with white. By the time we give up and go in, it’s snowing again, very lightly. It’s the birthday of my first child, my son. After we go in, we don’t stay out more than an hour, I make my son an omelette. It’s gorgeous. A wondrous birthday breakfast. Snow falls through the day. After dark, I think about going out for an evening ski. But I’m tired. And I want to give my son a gift. Every birthday, I give a massage. By the fire, I set up the table. Light the candles, and put on the relaxing music. The room is dark, flickers by candlelight, and outside, the yard is lit, the snow falls tenderly and in the glass framed tree of life the flames of the candles dance. All day, before this lovely time, I worked on my poem for Monday night workshop. It was hard to decide what poem I’d bring, but then I opened my notes I wrote from my travel photo prompt, the photo of Frank walking the Charlie in the Montreal pre-dawn. I cull from all my raw material a decent first draft: it’s too long. But there are parts that are working that I like. My prompt worked. I bring it to the workshop tonight. Instead of driving in to Cambridge, because of the weather, the workshop is held on Zoom. I get some helpful feedback; and find, I think Tom’s right. There’s a poem within this poem, there are two. I see how to split it. It’s still snowing, and even more snow, another storm, is expected by morning. I was so grateful, that night after he was first in the world, and I had managed his difficult birth, I was relieved he was alive and well, sleek cheeked and soft, a boy to grow up in my life. He’s such a thick and meaty guy. His head holds the weight of a cannonball in my oily hands.