The hoarfrost traces the trees Like a boy on his knees Tracing a picture in a book. When he asks his father to look He sighs and puts on his glasses. How fast his enthusiasm passes. Son and father go back to bending their necks Over a book of pictures, a book of checks. Winters hence A man leaves the house he rents And trudges through the snowy yard. His tender inner life has grown too hard. His weight shakes the hoarfrost from the tree, Revealing the real beneath the tracery.