This morning four inches,
piled wet on the lawn,
gazebo, steps, every branch
topped with whipped cream.

I chose a white dog to spot her
in the yard at night. Michi runs out,
disappears, hops in the shallow
drifts, harasses fat squirrels, disappears.

The driveway and drain field sparkle.
I take photos, snatch words,
want to capture this view,
make only clichés.

Those days of heavy snow and icy streets,
schools closed, we stayed inside, steam heat hissing,
watched fat flakes fall, whitewash the city.
Wrapped in pure white, I read Nancy Drew,
listened to Johnny Mathis records, ironed
piles of hankies with Elvis on the radio.

Three decades in Florida, I half-expected
the unexpected treat of a snow day, time off
from everything, cozy and safe inside, not like
hurricane days when I ran away from home or stayed
and listened to the wind howl, hoped the roof would hold.

This winter in Virginia, I plan to write fiction,
rework failed poems, stay inside that blanket of white,
secure the generator will work in an ice storm.
Prepared with a feather bed, fleece pajamas,
pantry loaded with tuna, flour, sugar, nuts,
books enough to read for years.

It’s 71 degrees, squirrels race round the trees
as if it’s spring, not mid-January. The daffodils
shoot up. 2007 may be the warmest on record.
At night, moths knock against the window’s light,
tell me the time’s not right for me to write.