Looking down at the white blinding snow
the boy walks slowly across the school yard.
in silent disquiet he watches the other boys
in jackets of red, yellow and blue
as they enter in the school in a small pool,
laughing, like he does in his dreams.
excluding him, skin turns blue.
Sitting and listening, though half in a dream,
the minute hand falls like descending snow
anticipating the exodus of boys in a pool
of laughter into the snowy yard.

the children play, cross legged sits the boy.

Like clockwork, approach the bigger, older boys,
who haunt the boys wake and dreams.
Grinning and curling into fists their blue
gloves grasping handfuls of cold snow
and pushing him into the frozen yard.
His red hands melt the ice into yellow pools.

The words flow out in pools,
flowing through the veins of the small boy.
The hell that is this elementary school yard
where the children play, like he does in his dreams.
But his skin is numbed by the white blinding snow,
the pressing hands, blurs of yellow and blue.

His cut lip, blood dying the ground a deep blue
blood flows out in a gentle pool
staining his jacket, the snow
hurts the small, defenseless boy.
With the ring of the bell his nightmare ends and his dreams begin
as the children funnel out of the schoolyard.

He returns home to his own snowy yard
with marks on his arms of yellow and blue.
A small refuge awaits in his sleeping dreams,
but he knows it won't lasts; water builds up in pools
under his eyes.  The bitter face of a young boy,
cold from the white blinding snow.

Awaiting him tomorrow is that yard, that pool
of laughter and the blue gloves of the bigger, older boys.
He wish this bad dream melt, like the springtime snow.