Poem: Now snows … then snows
The white sheets flying horizontally past the windows, driven by stout North winds,
Finally find their resting place on the earth, and deepen hour by hour.
Eighty years ago the same sight, crafted by earlier flakes, never identical they say,
Lifted the heart of a child who thought not only of “no school”
But also of sliding and snow angels and a snowman.
And of hot cocoa … probably with a marshmallow.
But now the child is old — very old — and lifts his dimmed eyes
Slowly above the pages of his book to watch the snow.
And he wonders: What would it be like to slide, and make a snow angel,
And even a snowman. Again.
Then he dozes before it is time for his Manhattan.
Probably with an olive rather than a cherry.