First Snow

It's white outside. There is softness falling, and I want to write words to catch it before it soundlessly finds the ground. No print of foot or paw. No mailman trudging his way to the front steps. No milkman, even if there were still such a thing. Not yet. The snowflakes hover in the beam of light from the street lamp. Delaying their task. Dancing or basking or just losing their way. No hurry. There is beauty enough to linger a few more moments in the air.

I want to write poetry. I want to let the words bounce off each other. To watch them accidentally place themselves with purpose onto the white page. The white screen. Like the small bits of snow blowing about in the night outside my window.

I want to be that kid again, holding the thought of a no school happy morning. Pressed to the glass with the house asleep. Keeping that hopeful secret to myself for just a few more hours, until the world wakes and decides to call the day off for play. Drift off to sleep, completely free.

That's not me, though. Not anymore. Now I am not a poet. Now I am more like the snow.