by Richard Greene
A card came in the mail today
on its face an old photo
of five boys running
across a snowy field in Central Park.
In the background tower the cliffs
of Central Park West
veiled in falling flakes,
as if this were a valley exempt from time,
and the boys,
their knees suspended in exuberant stride,
are wearing caps with earflaps
from that season when the world was young.
Now here in my warm kitchen
miles and years from that place
I feel its snowfield under my feet
and about my shoulders the sensation
of winter's cold embrace.