You wake to the sound of shattered glass,
your father descending a ladder,
pieces of a 500 watt lamp scattered
on the ice below. He tells you to go back
inside, but you watch him sweep the sharp
flakes into a pile with his gloved hands.
When you think of it now you can hear a brief chime
from the Saskatoon bridge, the soft groan of new snow,
but it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to remember
how long you stood there, the wind watering your eyes,
rippling his reflection. It’s hard to remember
what made you watch him carry the remnants
through the yard, a thousand tiny moons
cradled in his upturned palms.