Spring Snow Dancer

Snow into April. Frost night after night.
Out on the Welsh farms the lambs die unborn.
The chill air hurts my lungs, but from the light
It could be spring. Bitter as it is bright,
The last trick of the cold is a false dawn.

I breathed, grew up, and now I learn to be
Glad for my long life as it melts away,
Yet still regales me with so much to see
Of how we live in continuity
And die in it. Take what I saw today:

My granddaughter, as quick as I could glance,
Did ballet steps across the kitchen floor,
And this time I was breathless at the chance
By which I’d lived to see our dear lamb dance —
Though soon I will not see her any more.