There is no crisp chill
or air too cold
when a snowball must be made
or a sled ridden.
Let the snow angels
adorn the yard
under a sentry
of rolled balls stacked
three high with
sticks for arms.
Let icicles form,
let gray clouds hang overhead,
let specks of white
meander slowly, loftily
aimlessly on.
Let them fall,
let them land
and build up the reserves
for the snowballs
must be made,
the sleds ridden,
and angels carved
by gliding wings.
-MKM 1/20/19
