what was it that he trusted so?

 

On a day entirely neutral grey:                                                                                          January 13th, 1998

A full foot of dry powder

came down after Christmas

a blessing filling the locust woods

draping all thorns, outlining

the rock maple, revealing structure

in the erasure of the intermediate;

stone walls, the foundations

of forgotten barns and houses

and the fading roads through the trees

My sons and I went out to sled

found a suitable slope

down through the trees and across

a wide trail, ending in a rocky pit

a farmer's basement a century gone;

a couple of runs made the track fast

and Eamonn complained that the snow

into his eyes would blow

and sting, and he said,

“I know what I'll do,”

and halfway down his last run

pulled his hat down to his chin

and rode his bucking sled blind

into the white future

wild and unafraid

what was it that he trusted so?

and he slammed the trail, flew into white air,

skimmed the submerged stones and

caromed off a locust tree

shouted in pain and lay still

in the uncomplaining snow

and we ran down to him, my

heart torn in two

between fear that he was maimed

and pure wonder at his wildness;

lifted him up and got him walking,

promising him hot chocolate

in the warm kitchen of the present,

the house still full of life and noise

and color, sailing on a sea of snow.

What was it that he trusted so? 

Eamonn, Christmas 2010