Heavy, white, wet.
Leaves, still on trees,
Hang limply under cold blankets.
First glimpse out frosted windows
Starts the stirs of exuberant shouts
In the early morning's quiet.
A mad dash;
Mittens, toques, winter jackets
Take their first breath of winter-y air
After a long year of waiting.
And rickety, feeble snowmen
Fill the yard among the slushy footprints
Left by little boots.
Glittery snow angels
Spread their wings and fly,
Each one special,
Each one unique.
A call from the front porch
Brings the shouts inside;
Boots off, ski pants scatter wet, clinging snow.
And happy voices
Reminisce the mornings excitement
Over steaming mugs
Of hot chocolate
before starting all over again.
- Natasha Dewing