Snow used to get us out,
make us communal,
offering respite from
school, indoors.
Traces now languish
on the lawn, in woods.
Sleds can’t slide on that!
No children playing.
But I know the texture of snow—
wet, powdery, crystalline,
dry on my face, stinging
fingers, dripping in palms
molding it into balls tossed
against a pine, hit or miss.
I miss the proximity of snow,
the abundant silence it bestows.
Now it feels distant, ancient.
Will it merely become
a memory of childhood?
On this winter day,
sun chases clouds scattered
like snow mounds,
the touch of snow remaining
impoverished.
Originally published in Diverse Voices Quarterly, 2015 Volume 7, Issue 24
