I walk with my niece down the wet cracked pavement,
fingers gripped by her miniature fierceness, feet
tripping after her intent to leave no petal untouched,
          no pebble unturned.
 
          I remember when snow first swaddled the ground,
and the city street stretched, white, transformed.
In front of me, a man with a hustle and briefcase
broke his stride, stopped, stooped, grabbed
a fistful of flakes. Standing, he hurried on, gait unchanged,
          bare fingers wrapped around bare snow.
 
          This is a full and wondering world.
Sometimes we want our palms’ proof that
what we see is true, what we expect exists,
and even we can hold nature’s disappearing acts
          in one hand.