When the snows have come again
to sheath every fine bough,

I am without the word for when
it begins the next day to drop lightly
as if released from a bow.

When I climb a hill to where the sun hasn't set
and children careen down it
and drop into the sea of the valley below,

I do not know what I should do.
Run back down the bank?
No, there is a long walk ahead
to think about what children know.

When I have reached as far as I want to go
and see the mountain across me glow,
impassive and shining with the last light of day,

I know there is no announcement to be had
for why one must suffer to see fine things.