By firelight I shine your shoes
you tell me you are half past six.
Hands turn toward seven years
since your cradling, when all day
I kept you in a snowsuit—
the soft fur hood white around your face
like the ice that framed my heart—
as if, at any moment, I could
have lifted us to freedom.
Polished for the morning they will let you run,
run until your feet leave the ground.