The Snow-eater

For every third step on the path
            to our front door, my son stoops
                        until his mouth is level with the fresh-fallen
 
snow, and there he parts his lips
            until the pink of his tongue meets
                        the white of the first few particulates
 
of ice. He holds his body taut
            with the thrill of its blank, juicy
                        chill, his mouth watering for
 
the next taste of near-nothing,
            and he reminds me that perhaps
                        this is what he has been after
 
all along: the sheer white
            of sensory possibility, the whole
                        world of it, not-yet-definite
 
as it meets the tenderness
            of the body, which from the first
                        moments in the womb was 
 
                                    made to yearn, to moon.