The Catapult

                                       It reminded me of a hand,
                                       Palm up on an extended arm,
                                       Tickling the branch above it.
                                       The first snow came and filled its hand—
                                       I thought of when I made snowballs
                                       As a child at play in the yard,
                                       It is a happy memory.
                                       The hand looked like a catapult
                                       Cup- filled and ready to release
                                       If somebody pulled the arm’s cord.
                                       The next day there was a warming
                                       That relieved some of the tension,
                                       And the arm unwound and relaxed.
                                       The wind came up that evening,
                                       And brought with it an icy rain.
                                       The hand reached out and caught the slush
                                       In what was left of its white glove,
                                       And the catapult began to wind.
                                       The icy rain gave way to snow,
                                       And the snow-stone began to grow.
                                       It snowed until the dark found light—
                                       The arm, wound, looked ready to throw,
                                       But the cup continued to catch
                                       More snow from the branches above.
                                       The slush beneath the snow turned ice
                                       Adding extra weight to the arm
                                       Bending it below the roller,
                                       If there had been a roller there.
                                       The cup tilted and tried to spill
                                       But without hope it just refilled,
                                       And the arm bent until it broke
                                       Finally releasing the cold stone
                                       That smashed when it hit the hard yard.