Grown ups gather on one side of the room
Youth on the other, small and large,
Glad and gleeful, preschool
to highschool, waist high
to sky high, all helping
Each of us gathers to our chest
a clutch of paper snowballs, two years
of recycling smashed into
tough, round balls, like eggs
we tend and nurture,
And toss with force and abandon,
Wild and true.
Kurt unleashes the first volley,
Moving in on the kids with a twinkle
Behind his glasses, his belly
A shield bouncing balls back
Like a secret weapon.
Evan dashes out to the front,
Five-year-old eyes shining like a warrior,
his hands scooping and tossing, scooping
and aiming, rocketing forward like a launch pad,
sending balls soaring with true finesse.
I hide behind the barricade
of an overturned table, unsure
Of how I feel about children
Acting out their aggression against elders,
Until I see our faces reflected
In the window, old, happy,
Lighted by delight,
Released to recess,
Each year, for the annual
paper snow ball fight.