The sky has been gray
and ominous, fat with
potential winter droppings
to blanket the streets.
It makes weathermen
and weatherwomen
nervous to see the
spreading clouds on their
radar screens. They feel
like Paul Revere or Israel
Bissell and are compelled
to warn us that the white
coats are coming.
The White Coats are coming.
The snow will fall.
Fat flakes tumbling down
w
a
r
d
to the bare sidewalks
and streets
and coat them all
with a wintery
sterility.
The snow will drift
back and
forth over our heads
as we try to
struggle through it’s
rapid accumulation.
We’ll
trudge through it as it continues
to drift and sway
in the strong wind
that blows it
in swirling dancing spires
of a winter ballet.
It will kick and buck and do it’s
best to slow us down,
to keep us mired. It won’t last.
It can’t last. It has no staying power.
The sun will return and smile, warming
us back up into something less abominable.
Something to rise.
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