Oh, that sound! Across snow—

creak, creak, creak:

somebody walking in long boots of felt.

Stout, spirally twisted ice,

sharp points inverted, hangs from the eaves.

The snow is crumpy and shiny.

(Oh, that sound!)

My hand sled behind me, far from dragging,

seems to run by itself: it knocks at my heels.

I settle upon it and coast

down the steep, down the smooth:

felt boots straddled,

I hold on to the string.

Whenever I’m falling asleep,

I cannot help think:

Maybe you will find a moment to visit me,

my warmly muffled up, clumsy childhood.