When I was a boy it snowed in December.
Now it still snows sometimes,
always after the holidays,
when everyone has given up hope.
It snowed today.
It keeps on snowing:
waves of whipped cream on the rooftops,
marshmallow fluff everywhere else,
snow hiding the shame of concrete,
snow covering dust, covering dirt,
snow on wood: trees, fences, logs,
wonderful to behold.
Snow laughing under your feet,
flirting with your eyelashes
snow tugging at your ears
reminding you you have a nose
snow blinding your eyes
keeping you outside.
Snow teaches warmth:
the warmth of tea and hot soup
the gratitude of having a home
she teaches kids sledges and old folk falls,
from a comfortable room.
Snow is a virgin until she is not.
She is cold until she is warm,
smothering the earth,
so spring grass will seem greener
when it’s out.
Is snow really white,
or only what happens during the rest of the year
makes her so?