A Year of Childhood

In January,

when the thrill of the holidays has not yet faded

and the snow still enchants with its glittering smile,

she flops into snowbanks and skids on her knees on the ice

of her backyard pond,

not caring that her snow-pants and ski jacket

are weighing her down.

In February,

when the snow shows its angry side

and Vermont is a land of ice,

she (when she has to go outside) layers herself in winter gear

and pulls her hood down as far as it'll go,

knowing she'll return with a wind-bitten face anyway.

In March,

when Lake Champlain begins to melt

and the snow grows mushy and black,

she throws her snow-pants into the depths of her closet

and runs freer now, every day trying to shed the other remnants of winter

and failing mostly, because this is the month

when the weather can't decide.

In April,

when - at last! - the sun poses and flutters her eyelashes

on her background of painfully bright blue,

she skips, not minding her way,

and splashes into a tiny sky on the sidewalk,

giggling happily, sound clearer than the inevitable spring showers.

In May,

when the tulips steal the daffodils' spotlight

and the dandelions take over the world,

she pumps, pumps, pumps,

pedaling as fast as she can, trying to outpace her shadow,

but quickly becoming distracted

by the enticing perfume of rosebushes after rainfall.

In June,

when the brick buildings full of children release at last

and the grass leads the trees to lime green glory,
the empty parking lot echoes with the smack

of sneakers against concrete,

her sneakers, attempting to leave her racing body behind

and fly

through the warm breezes into paradise.

In July,

when the sun's beams become pointed, sharp

and the air presses inward, smelling like sweat and summer,

delighted screams pierce the silent lakeside,

quickly following the ripples that swish faster than motorboats,

and she surfaces, shivering, swimming, smiling.

In August,

when the sidewalk wears cherry-flavored stains

and even the ice cream truck jingle sounds bored

with this bright green hot wonderful mess that is summer,

she sits in the highest point in her tree, the oak that grows

just right for her small but strong hands,

pressing an ice pack to her thigh, where prickling bumps make up

a vermilion constellation, and watching the woodpeckers peck.

In September,

when the north winds blow their breezes across the Northeast,

cooling the air and the leaves enough to step outside and smell;

oh, the smells of autumnal Vermont! sugary scents from

golden-ish maples and pine sap and crisping apples and wonders

that she breathes in and picks and sees and eats

and is wonderstruck by.

In October,

when the world is colder than before, yet we live in a fever rush

as the trees parade down the streets in gowns of fiery gold,

she skips from house to house in sunset dark,

gaily calling out, trick or treat! as she fills her bag and belly

and the jack o' lanterns watch with glowing grins.

In November,

when the trees unwillingly shed their autumn attire for thin nightgowns 

and the winds blow gray against the gray sky and even the sunset is gray in this beauty-of-the-bone stick season,

she tugs puffy jackets from their closeted hiding places,

turning into a starkly contrasted purple dot against the gray

of the world, and when she throws these hindrances off,

she laughs in a brightly lit room eating wondrous food surrounded by her wondrous family, momentarily forgetting the outside world.

In December,

when the delicate snowflakes fall, ballerinas in a neverending dance,

and winter silence, heavier than the doubled-up quilts we snuggle under at night, falls with them,

she peers out the window, curled on the sofa around a mug filled with warm memories of hot cocoa,

breathing the golden candlelight that surrounds her,

creeping up the everything in an imitation of the lacy frost that whispers just on the other side of the glass,

exhaling the wonder and horror and love and laughter and darkness

of the past twelve glorious months

into the air, where it will hover until tomorrow,

until the new year arrives.