February snow is sticky,
a cottony maple scale,
a clinging nuisance
rarely fatal when it
holds on too firmly.

February’s forest is filled
and no longer sounds hollow.
There is the gobbling stream,
and the sniggering birds
that snidely know
this is the last snow.

The dirty slush on the footbridge
is now a sandy beach access.
I cross smushed footprints,
and the tracks of pulled sleds
resemble the drag of boogie boards.

You need confidence, my son,
to ride the bumps of that slick hillside,
and I cheer each caught wave
of icy velocity that pushes you
back to powdery shore.

And when you reach the berm,
you stretch out on your sled
like a surfboard, and watch
the other children slide,
enjoying the view
as much as the ride.