The snow is still soft, sifted in drifts Before the crust forms. Warm feet, rapidly cooling In clammy boots, Flute though the easy powder Pocking the skinless Whiteness of unbodied cold. Now a hand And a face solidify in the sun, Running and stooping, Scooping pawfuls to build the flat waste Into a body Ready to become a man. A breathing man Stands back, stamping and shivering, Wondering if With luck his daughter Will get bored, Worn out with snow that refuses to play, Before she calls him, Impatient, importuning, impolite, To make a head. Dread of his own irritation, Dislike of the temper Remembered from another father Thirty years ago Grown hot in his own head, Scorches red the snow. No father, really: Merely a progenitor.