Snow Day

Soft white quiet beyond
the icy melting panes
of my bedroom window.
Warm grandma quilts
and
hot chocolate, the morning dies.
As the afternoon grows,
so does the village
of igloos and forts guarded
by portly snow people,
naked of all
but mother’s old scarf.
Evening blooms crimson, violet,
now black and blossoms of stars.
The scent of smoke tickles
the carroty noses of those pale
sentries forgotten already
in the rush
of lunch packing & evening baths.
And
the next day, melting
under the sun of the coming
weeks, months, years.


This is best read centered on a page, where it reminds me of a snowman.