Snow

A poem

Dear he holidays. I plan to continue the current series in the new year. In the meantime, enjoy a poem I recently wrote about the pleasures of winter.

Merry Christmas,
Michael

---

Snow

The first snow
of winter would light
a fire in my spirit.
In the eyes of a child
snow is not snow.
It is gold. It is cold, wet,
condensed joy,
given to bury
the tragedy of fall.
It is cloud descended
to become clay
in my mitts.

Those were spontaneous
holidays,
snow globes
in time,
forever frozen memories
that I sometimes
choose to shake
to watch the snow
fall again.