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