It is after, our first snow storm
clears. Standing at the kitchen
window, watching, looking as

the blue breaks. I am seeing
my daughter's jumping, jumping
with a friend. Sun bouncing on the

trampoline as the canvas shoves them too,
pushing back. Jumping because they can,
in a whitestorm or the blue. Me, seeing

because I can not, not. Can not move
from this place, so rooted am I to this spot
of being eight again. As they sit on the

roof of the playhouse sharing stories,
hairs bent, coupling to whisper secrets so close,
every ear holds the murmurs. When they bite,

we can all taste, our apple's tang pulling
us with every mouthful. Savor it inside our heads.
Touch the laughter rolling off

that roof. And I stand still, placing this space,
and this moment in our lives. Light shimmering
abounds our jumping, our seeing,

the movement toward the window and away.
Remember the reddening leaves, remember
the snow brings freeze. But for now, we

blaze. Coloring trees. Oranges match her wind
pants, treetops echo yellow soccer socks.
Birds, sing a recitation of this palette,
of this jumping in the stillness.

by Julia Burns, a mother, teacher, and child psychiatrist. She practices with her family in North Carolina.