A Snowfall Poem

We have had a snowy January here in Nebraska. Yesterday, I even got stuck for a handful of minutes while trying to visit my sister. The slush is piled up everywhere, and my car is pretty low to the ground. Luckily I almost made it to her driveway before the terrible, icy mush tried to lure my tires with its siren call. My sister dug me out. Then she pushed my car and I made it onto the street. All the while, my son was yelling “aunty?” from the back seat. Adorable.

When I’m not stuck in the snow, I am writing poems about it. I’ve written an extraordinary number of poems about snow. Something about it fascinates me. It is the most beautiful of all precipitation, so many ways it can capture my heart. For my last post of January, I thought I’d share one of my favorite poems I’ve written about snow.

Snowfall

Fog hangs low among
the trees while snow around
filters down among the green.
I imagine parachutes:

microscopic men and women
in white leotards slowly
descend around the needles
of the trees, nesting softly 
in the fallen brown ones.

And then for melting, my mind 
is lost in making sense 
of parachuting visitors settled 
happily before taking leave 
of their stations, and behind them
only dewy leaves and sodden earth
is left.

What do you think of the microscopic parachuters? Do you relate to finding wonder in the snowfall?