Late March, but a cold frosty night,

And this morning near the path

To the road an oak leaf, its vaguely

Human shape, head, arms and legs

Outspread like a child making angels

In a too-large hand-me-down snowsuit

In sixty years of snow.

                                               Or, lying there

On its back, struggling to turn over,

A turtle, not the huge snapping turtles

Down by the river that changed course

Fifty years ago past the locks and dam,

But the tiny box turtle, shell painted red,

Carried home from the five and ten store,

Fed lettuce and dead flies, water in a doll's

Teacup.  I have seen it many times since,

Stopping on the road to let it creep across.

Try as it might, the leaf cannot grab hold

Of the wind and cross the path.  I stoop

And turn it over, rise and walk on, the leaf

Catching a gust of air, following, trying to

Keep up with an old man and his memories.