Snow Comes

The radio and the weathermen
Mentioned winter wonders tonight.
So does everyone
Who meets another someone
On the bustling sidewalk.
We've heard it before
And been disappointed.
Still we prepare.
Milk. Bread.
Chains. Sled.

The radio and the weathermen
Mention it might begin at nine.
By eight, our noses are pressed
Against the panes like glasses
Watching the moon disappear
As the largest cloud passes,
Full -- nearly overflowing.
But risks exist of being
Disappointed yet again.
Still we wait.
Restless. Childlike.
Half-believing. Half-worried.

Outside, staring into black,
Feet planted, head tilted, hands pocketed.
A light fog blends with our steamy exhalations.
Then one white speck illuminates the entire night,
And lands like the first cannonball
Of a silent war.
A single flake
Causes the full cloud to break.

One billion shooting stars
Plunge from heaven
Onto our wet tongues
Into our moist eyes
Powdering our hair and
Tickling any uncovered skin.
"This is less disappointed
Than we've ever been!"
Say the radio and the weathermen.
They mention school announcements.
We've heard it before
And been disappointed.
Still we watch.
Open? Delayed?
Closed! Horray!
We never forecasted they would be so right!

No matter our age,
We're filled with delight and
Still we play.
Snow fight. Snowmen.
Snow angels. Snowed in.
We're soaked to our skin
Ten layers was too thin.

Holding hot cocoa, our hands tingle,
Trying to decide whether or not to feel.
The first sip is always dangerous.
But the second comes with comfort
And a heat that falls from our lips to our toes
So that each drop that follows it
Knows right where to go.
We each watch
As the last thick sip slide towards
It's redeeming fatality,
Letting millions of microscopic candy bars
Flood our tongues in melting surrender.

We fall into bed, tired and happy,
Then wake to find
The snow spent the night.
As we press our sleepy noses against the glass,
Disbelieving there is no class
And wishing the world could always seem so clean.
We could roll back in bed,
But just outside
There's a blank canvas waiting
For us to bundle tightly and begin our painting.