White Christmas

Here,

we expect a white Christmas,

with its varying shades of white

and frosted blues and even the ashen shade

of snow heaped high, frozen and tinged with dust

thrown by the wind, dirty with sand

let fly for traction, for gripping the ice,

lest we slip and fall and break, this snow

piled up by plows and snowblowers

or the back-breaking task of shoveling,

cleaning up from last night’s storm

blowing in while we slept, predicted,

yet we doubted that it would really arrive,

- oh, ye of little faith - maybe hoping

it wouldn’t come, unprepared as we are.

But we still expect a white Christmas,

just like the ones we used to know,

one carried in by a cold wind, the treetops

glistening, children listening, and all that.

Growing up and eager with the excitement

of Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer, we

always had a white Christmas, though

whether we realy did or not we can’t prove,

nor care to; we remember it that way - it’s always

been that way - and global warming or not, climate

changes to boot, we expect the snow to fall

despite what the scientists tell us and remain

on the ground throughout the holiday, fa la la la la!

And now, the twelve days behind us, the tree

drooping and out of place, the festivities

over and gone, the toys put away and the task

of post-Christmas ahead, we begin counting the days

till spring, mud-season even, looking ahead for longer

days between sun up and sun down, more light in between

and higher temperatures warming us against the cold,

the green of our lives returning, for we have had

our snow-white Christmas, what we expected,

and that was enough for this year,

here.