SOUTHERN SNOWFALL

I watched the snow fall last night
And awoke to chrystal white, packed against our cabin.
The cleansing smell of snow.
The sound of silent brightness.
Southern snow, a rarity.
Fifty-eight years ago, school was out for a week.
In my young mind, heaven had arrived on earth.
Days on end, Linda McDaniel and I played until the skin on our faces burned.
Homework free, we played.
We flew on our sled
down the long sloping yard of the town grump.
He did not emerge from his mansion.
I wonder if he secretly smiled at the sight of us from his window.
Fifty-eight years later, I sink my bare feet into the depths of blinding whiteness and wish I could fly down old man Sanderson’s yard.