By Snowfall

Not a poet,

yet oftentimes a word

a thought

will cause my mind to

spiral backwards

to the younger days,

to the long gone

younger days

when by a window

the vision

of falling snow

brought to life

within the widened sphere of a streetlight,

when by a window

I would stand transfixed

in the warmth of my home

while in the background

children playing

or watching TV,

the scents of the kitchen

bringing the sense of my home to me

as I would watch the sparkling

white accumulation building

beneath the light of the streetlight,

then, “Honey,” my wife would say,

then from the window I would turn,

and as my wife and the children,

and the six of us,

with our dog expectantly  

standing nearby

would sit

and talk,

and laugh,

as the sparkling white snow

now widening to cover our world

fell to earth...

outside the warmth of my home.