Not almond paste. I sit in the kitchen
With a soft pearl sculpture of a cow
In my hand. It’s marzipan, she says,
You can eat it. I can? Not, until
Christmas. Outside it is cold, but
There is no snow in the branches,
Only frost on the blades of grass
On the lawn out back. Afraid to
Damage the cow and ruin its beauty
I set it on the counter. So white
And pure like snow. Will it be a
White Christmas, I say to her. If
The angels decide it so, she says.
Then I had wanted snow so badly
And was impatient to eat the sweet
Cow. In the kitchen, with her, in
Her floral gowns, cooking, preparing,
Always working, I watched
The strength of waiting.
Later, I would learn the danger of snow,
Its soft, pure deception and what it can
Do to the road we travel.