I yearn for snow
yet it only rains.
And still, I run outside,
earnest and ready,
arms outstretched,
clothes getting wet,
I stick my tongue out and catch raindrops.

I yearn for snow
and magical, wintry air
that may kiss the tip of my nose
and paint it a shade of red.
But only on select days,
does this air show her face,
so I run outside,
and am filled with glee
when my exhales create tiny clouds.
By the time I’ve finished breakfast,
only a whisper of her remains.

I yearn for snow
that coats my yard in a sparkling white blanket
inviting me to lay in it,
that holds me gently when I do,
so that I may flail my arms and legs,
and make angels.
What I see instead,
is a thin layer of frost,
that covers the rubber
underneath our school’s play structure.
Logic be damned,
I lay in it just the same,
flail my arms and legs still,
then stand up to view my masterpiece,
which has already disappeared,
since all the frost has melted
In the morning sun.

I yearn for snow.

If I close my eyes a moment longer,
my imagination can carry me there.

And if I open my eyes instead,
I may revel in what is already here.