SOUTHERN SNOWFALL

I watched the snow fall last night
And awoke to crystal white,
packed against our cabin.
The cleansing smell of snow.
The sound of silent brightness.
Southern snow, a rarity.
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
white and wishing I could
fly down old man
Sanderson’s yard.