Snow is a wonderful thing,

it makes the little children sing,

and falls from the heavens, like a gift from above,

snow can never be an imperfect love.

 

They say there can never be two alike,

as streaks of light mercilessly strike,

barren earth, under white duvets,

peeking from holes in wool pockets.

 

Snow, hail and sleet,

two unwanted but in packaged deceit,

and each year, a renewed debut,

and far beyond a mixed adieu.

 

And if I were the last to feel Frost’s graze,

and live in the heart of Old Man Winter’s maze,

I would spend the days of last,

praying for a snow’s weather forecast.