Sun's rolling up chases ice down-mountain, Down-valley, out the storm drain. "Where's winter?" Yankee wife weeps, Spring too early to her taste. "Seasons are wrong here." "Wrong," I say, "We're twice seasoned; Shenandoah has double winters. I'll show you." Gray highway splits greening valley, She snuffles in the seat, Like spring's soft rain yesterday. She wanted snow. Pull onto flat shourlder stretching valley's palm. "Where," betrayal-fearful, voice almost breaking, Chandelier-poised, "Where's winter?" she challenges, Season's last watchguard demanding password. "There," I wave grandly spring-light, "On the hills." First puzzled, twisted like winter's dark branches, Her face explodes with ice-clear light. She sees up and down the valley: Sliding down river's edge to drink, Blinding white snow-field assembled ranks, Our new army On branches Ground Shenandoah's second winter-- Apple blossoms.
Reason for writing:
Some of us like snow.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Jim Medeiros (Scorpio).