The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love.
~ Margaret Atwood

Where’s the snow that fell the year that fled—Where’s the snow?
~ Samuel Lover

Snow, a surprise to see, to like, at last!
The ground lovely white as a wedding gown,
the diaphanous veil drowning the brown,
she beyond beauty, the bride of forecast.
Rumour has it she has cold feet; is fast,
of late, feeling the heat of the count down;
so she shrugs the cold shoulders and fells the frown
as her suitor pleads, who’s pleased that that’s past.
But wait—signs are served along with her vows
of no forever; no death do us part;
meaning, all the seasons of her seasons.
Her feelings melting just as ours arouse,
like her spouse, wedded to her fickle heart;
whose need exceeds want: love has its reasons.

© Helga Ross 2007