Despite two feet of snow
we charge outside
no coats
with party-favor bubbles.
Today's her birthday.

The steam of our breath
smokes the soap-globes.
Inside the house, turkey grows cold.
A thin film of fat glazes gravy.

Against snowfall
bubbles rise
like sturdy old planes,
disappear.
My wife's swinging arms
shed diamond balls.
Over and over we laugh,
blow into plastic wands
our breath and cares
to shimmer and balance
like light
on knife blades of air.