The Coldest Days

I remember well

the melted summer

day they told us

of his drowning. And

I recall that except

on the coldest days

he wore shorts, the old

bright Dodger brand

of our youth, the kind

that left angled tan lines

on our skinny legs, after

days and days of sunlit

neighborhood backyard

baseball, our games

played slanted, a tough

run uphill to first base

after a hit. Then

there was the wool gray day

his brother sat alone

in our rope swing, surveying

snow-frosted, black limbs

of a walnut tree, our summertime

foul pole, having dragged two

runner sleds down

our backyard hill—a hill

that seemed much steeper

on this coldest of days.