See, I want to say to my son. See
how the pond has frozen in thick,
continuous curves. See all the lines,
how they ring each other, like dozens
of tiny orbits. I want to show him
the marvel of it all, but he is too old
now for marvels, or perhaps too young,
the precise age where beauty is boring.
And so I take the child of myself to the pond
and show her the rings. I resist the urge
to explain how the meltwater formed them,
how surface-tension forces make liquid melt
cling against the lower parts of the ice.
Instead, I let her gaze at the miracle,
trace the concentric bands with her fingers.
How curious the rings are, like frozen halos
that fit enormous angels. How astonishing
in their design. Just wait till I show her
we can walk on it, too. I let her amazement
become my own, our feet slipping
across the smooth surface, our breath
rising in white ephemeral curls.