Snow Overload

I used to like to walk in fluffy snow,

to hear the crunch of packed mounds

of white under my boots, to taste

icy flakes on my tongue, to see

my breath make foggy clouds,

to make angels in the powdery flakes.

Now I’m no longer excited

at a forecast of six to eight inches

of white precipitation, no longer

thrilled at a possible free day.

It just means hours of shoveling
or plowing streets and sidewalks.

I guess that's what happens
when age creeps up on you,

and you worry about slipping

on slick paths and keeping warm

as you clean off the car or search

for the hidden newspaper.

I try not to be too irritated

when I see gleeful children

sliding down hills in makeshift sleds,

or throwing icy balls at random.

I just hope they don’t cross

my path and knock me down.

So don’t expect me to jump

for joy when the next flurries

appear. I’m ready for greening

sprouts and forsythia gold,

for gentle rains and soft breezes.

Enough of this white stuff!