December, like a torrid romance,
rolls in and takes over with its granular
white beauty, making the ordinary extraordinary,
only to harden overnight and become dirty slush
by dawn’s early light.
Look how it demands respect,
makes a city groan and grimace
at the mere mention, only to send weathermen
and school kids into unfettered delirium
how it dredges up images of Frost and Dickens,
holiday memories on 34th Street,
when, in fact, it turns vehicles into bumper cars
and roads into beds of salt.
A torrent of snowball fights follows—
those complex lumps of packed snow
hiding ice hard as doorknobs,
hurled from the arm of a gangly teen.
What it is about the first snow
that makes our own dreams edible
as we hold out our cold, red tongues
against a gray sky?
How easy it is to believe in God,
or miracles, when nothing else adequately explains
the wonder of it all.