Waiting for Snow

“WHAT A GYP!!”

With raised fist and gnarled face

I accuse the skies.

I have been waiting for snow,

wishing for snow,

praying, hoping, and fishing for snow.

I have been daring snow,

oh where-ing snow, and

(for reverse psychology’s sake)

not-give-a-care-ing snow.

All this and not one single flake.

But as my fist drops and my eyes come back to earth,

I sigh,

“God knows best.”

And this is the proof:

that between the second coming

and the fall of man,

I can get so worked up about something

like the weather,

and can fill a book with idle words

by which to be judged.

(Did I say not one single flake?

Well, there might be one here…)

Yet, I believe you understand.

I believe you do not think it petty

to be a man,

or to care for the sparrow,

or to pour artistry

into the icy iron-work

whose feathery falling

makes winter crunch deliciously

like the year’s dessert.

For this season

you precipitated:

spirit crystallized as flesh,

deity danced where the wind willed—

out from its cloudy veil,

down through empty skies,

and into arms that waited

faithfully.