Snow Children

I rejoice to see children playing
in new fallen snow,
making snowmen, riding sleds,
sucking winter cold
from fingers wet, red and stinging
in woolen mittens.

They do not think that one day they,
like me, shall too be old.
And that is good.
Nor have I a wish to be young.
I have done that once
and found it both pleasurable and enough.

For them I wish a life that is long,
if it turns out to be happy,
or, if filled with pain, then a life
that is gratefully short,
before too much
damage to the spirit is done.

But to this extent disagree: that those in pain,
should they also grow to be old,
that they get to see
children in brightly colored snowsuits,
both loud and free,
messing up what was untracked snow.