It snowed last night;
It snowed a lot.
I did not know it would,
It started after I quit the world,
But after the alarm, shower, and clothes,
I was out the door
And I saw a perfect snow.

Four inches of serene virgin snow,
Untouched by boot or paw,
Stretched seductively before me.
Smooth and unblemished,
I ran my fingers across the flesh
And my spine shuddered with anticipation.

The drift was light,
And the breeze grasped at it,
Tossing the flakes through the air,
Churning a white whirlwind;
It danced with me.

On every branch and every bush
A thin layer of powder sat,
Resting after a hard night's work,
But restlessly awaiting the future.

As I continued on to my task
The snow resumed its fall;
It infused me with its life.

It was the kind of snow
That poet’s dreams are made of;

And so I wrote of it.