By Diana Fischer.
Powers of the air were in my control,
I would open the tear ducts of winter’s grey-eyes,
then the flakes would cascade, a shower of powdered sugar.
The first arrival
is tranquil, tucking the valley in.
A delicate arrangement of ice crystals,
Like billowing smoke from a chimney,
memories ascent, from snowman design
to sledding with friends.
Optimistic that it would stay,
across the dry un-mown grass,
over the majestic evergreens and mountain peaks.
Quandary at hand,
I would earnestly wait,
observing the clouds,
on a path of rigid air,
until tiny droplets burst. Again.
DIANA FISCHER is native of Montana, who lives in Missoula. She’s been writing poetry on and off since 1997, and the time between raising a family.