Warm Snow

Warm snow wafts slow and easy

onto cold ground. Strange drops fold

round hard stone. Firm skin,

marshmallow within, soft, smooth

and squidgy underfoot. Curious,

we start in boots and coats, soon stripped

to bare feet in unfamiliar heat.

Toes touch pure white cushions,

heels crush, snow springs back

undamaged. Children fist it, fling it,

dodge it. Floating snowballs tickle targets

chest and cheeks and chins of madly chuckling

girls and boys. Some build lumpy snowmen

with sunglasses instead of scarves and hats.

Another shower looses feather-light

its load of sweetness. Enterprising women

and men soon find forgotten tennis racquets

and smash the fluttering cotton balls. Cars

are silent, shuffling like unsteady toddlers

along the muffled shag pile on the street.

Night comes, moon shines, snow

is now become a mirror to its glow.

Reluctantly the older, wiser people

are shepherding the young ones to their beds.

For who knows whether warm snow waits

till it has been abandoned, soon to turn

to milky flow that goes to ground to feed

the sweet earth which longs for it below?

First published in By the Winter Fires, Indigo Dreams Publishing

 

 

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