Snow
I’m getting old, and where I live I doubt
I’ll see it any more, except maybe on screen
When troubled towns are featured in the news,
Or in those festive greetings cards with sleighs
Or frozen pines, perhaps a coach or deer
And mystery. Always its rarity was there,
And as a child I’d pray for it to come,
To fall like magic as in Dickens’ days,
One welcome night when soft and silent
Flakes began. But mostly it would not.
No land made perfect for our eyes.
No waking to a world of white for us,
It happened somewhere else, where people
Hated it, it seemed. And so with every
Other thing: some love, some hate
And none have choice. For life itself is thus.
Copyright © John Blake | Year Posted 2024
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