Snow by Louise Gluck
Late December; my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
on his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.
My father liked
to stand like this, to hold me
so he couldn’t see me.
I remember
staring straight ahead
into the world my father saw,
I was learning
to absorb its emptiness,
the heavy snow
not falling, whirling around us.
Difficult Degrees 