by Don Two
Oh how I miss the snow.
I pine for that heavenly white, for that rain
on high so transformed by icy atmosphere
to snow, for that flocculent* flake that covers fields
of green and provides the raw material
for snowmen and snow-women.
I exercise that right, here in the sun-baked adobe environs
of desert Phoenix, where snow is as alien as milk on the moon.
Call me some quark among the stable atoms
of convention, call me an aberration left
over from the time of hoop-skirts and rumble seats,
but allow me my requirement for myriad flake
even if it is because of too much gluten
or the misalignment of my genome.
All this shall pale in life’s grand scheme,
yet my innocuous longing for that which
is cold and wet, and able to send drifts
over cliffs with steady piercing stings,
as well as multiple factors of chill
that ice and whiten heretofore bland landscapes
into picturesque winters--that will remain resolute.
Yea, though I walk through the desert sands
of blistering granules, I shall feed my yen,
I shall reminisce my Buffalo childhood
of blizzards hostage-taking neighborhoods
en masse, I shall fall from
as a misaligned star to blaze my want
for cold white in the scorches of
Arizona’s unrelenting universe,
wherein my own selfish fusion
will remain a pining long
Writer’s Cramp Winner
*flocculent...containing, consisting of, or occurring in the form of loosely
aggregated particles or soft flakes <a flocculent precipitate>