First snow finally
finds its feet
in December, first ever
every time
it falls. Drivers
slide through signals
astounded.
Crossing guards
wave impotent signs,
say good morning
to children they know
who cannot believe
all this new
accumulated
in one night is
not enough
to make a snow day.
Walkers stagger until
they find snow
legs. Still
nothing on the far side
of the bridge for a man
wrapped in a blanket
who’s been standing
solitary so long asking
passing crowds for change.
Sweet work Steven.
Like a kid with her face pressed against a store window, I stare at this poem, wondering in awe at the snowy scene. Many winter poems on poetry blogs now, and I enjoy reading them all. Yours has a most realistic (day-to-day, nine-to-five) touch. Thank you. (Send snow my way again. Heehee.)