I notice my parents aging as I do myself:
Not at all, then in a photo, all at once.
I blink, and eons have passed.
Now Winter speaks to me, her voice
A groan of boilers straining against cold—
Don’t be sad. Does not the frost remind
Of home? Of baking Piroshki  with Grandma?
That photo of you in diapers, smiling wide?
On sluggish mornings such as this, when
The sun sweats to warm the chilly earth,
I wonder what my napping son is dreaming,
What he will ask when he grows old—
Remember that photo of Grandma and Grandpa?
They are smiling and, though it’s getting dark, I smile back.
What was it you wrote about America and hope?
(I notice the climate changing as I do my heart:
Not at all, then in Winter, all at once…)
You’ve begun to stir. I hear your happy babbling.
This darkness is heavy; I won’t let it crush you too.