winter sun

in the winter
with a low
yellow sun giving
us a warm hand of
light my son and
i would go towards
the woods, stopping
at the cold creek's
edge and find
a gully of soft
ground, and sit
and talk about
whatever was
on his mind at six
or seven. i can
still see the sun
on his face, his
sweet brown eyes,
listening to
me, his arms folded
behind his head,
his whole life
in front of him
and i wonder if he
remembers now
what i do.