Snow.

How we treat you

like an unwanted guest;

shaking off our shoes

in jest of maintaining the sanctity

of our precious hallway carpets.

O, but once when

we bore smaller,

keener smiles

we danced with you;

and you danced in return,

like a jester plying for to receive our folly

in recognition.

So now,

the roads are thick

with grief

that has no place

in the heart.

The cars become stuck,

the people feel unstuck;

the people just sit in armchairs -

on sofas -

and wait for a time when

they can more happily wait,

and idle their days in warmer climes.

But the old,

though cold,

observe with both

joy and apprehension

the white blanket,

falling like old, crushed bones from Heaven.

One day,

I might dance with you.

I will fall and rise with you,

and maybe you will coat

what humus I make

with your winter will.