I am fifty-eight years old
And you’d think I’d have grown up by now.
But no, not when it comes to first snow.


How can I explain to you, who have lived
Here all your life, what it
Means to me, first snow?

I am four years old again, sitting
In Daddy’s over-stuffed armchair next
To a tall window that overlooks the grimy
Gray streets of our row house on Lamport Road.
(I am not cold because the radiator under the window
Is hissing on and off, on and off.)


I peer out the window on this late afternoon
Waiting for it to snow because I know it
Is going to snow. I squirm in my seat
With delicious anticipation of that vanilla
Icing that is going to fall from the sky soon.

I eagerly await those fluffy fat flakes that
Are even bigger than my wide-open eyes.
I am ready to repeat the joys and thrills and spills
Of last year’s snows because I am experienced now, at four.


Finally my vigil pays off; it begins to snow.
First one flake, then another, and another! Oh, look at
Them come down! Now there are too many to count as
Afternoon becomes evening and streetlights blink on.

Still I sit and watch’ it is so dark now I can’t
Tell if it’s snowing. Only the streetlight outside
My window shows that it is. Yes, now the sidewalk
And trees, and even the trolley tracks are sporting
A sparkling diamond coat.


The world is wonderfully white and peaceful.
Snow is the great equalizer: my city street is
As beautiful as my uncle’s farm.

I hear Daddy’s car crunch over the snow and turn
Into the driveway; I see the snow still falling
In his headlights. How can I wait till tomorrow
To try out the Flexible Flyer that Santa brought
Just last week?


“Pat, Bon, Rob, Nancy, time for dinner,” Mom calls,
As I peel myself off the armchair. Though
I can’t see it now, I know it is still snowing.
First snow.

“Oh, yeah,” you say to me. “That’s a real nice
Little story, but when you have to put up with it
For four months out of the year,
Well that’s a horse of a different color.”


“Okay, let me explain a little more,” I replied.
“Every winter we come up from Florida for Christmas,
Hoping, praying that it’ll snow, and we
Haven’t been disappointed yet. It only
Snows once, but it satisfies us. So, you see,
Each snow is our first snow.”






By Nancy (hhnancy@verizon.net)

 

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Watch these pages for more poems by Nancy.
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The Home Straight

The Memory Tree

Once Upon A Christmas

The Twelve Days of Christmas, Updated

Holiday Time

Not Just Any Gift

Christmas Past

Ode To 2004

House On Hobb's Hill

One More Year

Bopper's Christmas 2005



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