I always wish that it would snow earlier.
Before January. Before December.
The best time is late November.
The ground would be frozen, sleeping under a snowy, heavy blanket.
A dark branch creaks from the cold weight.
Innumerable flakes, layer upon layer
of crystalline feather clings to the shingles
of your steep roof.
Then, Christmas would be a light in the darkness:
a homely red on a fierce white background.
Being Home, wrapped in a comforter, fortified by hot cider,
beside the fire—surrounded by love—
is an oasis from the icy desert.
God, I wish we could see it—feel it–now!
The tiny, melting, ephemeral diamonds,
they only last while we freeze.
But they are worth it.
Being together in the silent,
downy wood is worth it.