In Vigelandsparken there is snow on iron
forged gates, on copper roofed houses and
weathervanes, and on the stone breasts
of young maidens whose twirling hair pulls
the wind into a midwinter dance. The once
leafed giants line the path to a frozen gallery
for lovers to gaze, or not gaze, while their
mittened hands stay warm, and waiting.
Snowflakes fall on Sinnataggen – the angry
boy cast in marble who stands defiant above
the swirling river, while on the frozen bridge
below, a real boy sits in a wooden sled. His fur
cap is pulled tight over a fringe of milk-blonde
hair, and a reddened nose, the inscription of
his joy. When the evening sun glimmers, his
sure-footed hound tows him eagerly towards
home, and the awaiting hearth fire.
On the path to the monolith, snow falls on a girl
as she’s consumed by a lizard, a rounded mother
suckling her hungry dozen, a proud man cradling
his son, and a heap of boys caught in mid-fight.
She closes her eyes, and he slides the brilliant
diamond ring over a barren tree branch coated in
droplets of ice, and the gilded light of sundown
catch the facets of their years to come.