What Snow Isn’t Loved?
What snow doesn’t fall that isn’t loved or hated?
Whose first flake isn’t feared or maybe eagerly awaited,
And when finally seen against something dark or on a glove,
Isn’t admired and maybe even loved?
What snow doesn’t fall and blows and isn’t banked deep?
And measured in inches or in feet or up to knees,
Isn’t considered heavy while lightly floating down or away,
And settles but doesn’t promise something new—for one moment or one day?
What snow doesn’t fall that isn’t loved?