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.