Post Truth

A week of autumn snow, and today the sun,

the buildings fizzy with melting, the beggar

draping his sheets over the bank's homeless-spikes.

My daughter runs under the sycamore trees,

shouts look it’s still snowing, it’s still snowing,

clumps of old snow falling around her.

Who am I to deny her her truth?

I stand watching as she picks up a handful of mush,

that evaporates as she throws it towards me.

She’s eight now, audacious in her red sweater.

How could I deny her? This week’s been good

for the both of us, it seems; but today the trees

are shedding their magic white skins.

Look at my daughter, spinning in her small world of snow.

Now tell me, why would I make her up?