First Snow

Bernadine Lortis

For once the weather man was right.
His record is not without error
but he said it would snow and it did.
I drag out my worn boots, heavy wool coat—
pockets stuffed with gloves looking already occupied
so old they take the shape of my hands—
trudge out to shovel tramped walkways.
On my tongue, fattened flakes fall, one of a kind;
over the lawn a soft linen robe cloaks
marshmallowed bushes and shrubs.
Now a male cardinal interrupts the pure white silence
sings its majestic color in celebration—a red jewel
to pin the scene into melting memory. At this moment
I could not wish to be anywhere else.