I usually love February snowstorms.
Millions of snowflakes become a sea of frozen drifts—
Crystal doilies sculpted by the hands of creation’s genius.


Tonight, however, stray artistic medium
Stings my eyes like a thousand angry bees.
Chilled to the bare bone,

I close my door against blustery gusts of biting cold.
I retreat to my slippers and a steaming cup of tea
While my old house moans in protest against the white wind.


I am drawn out of hibernation
By a blinding winterfresh coat of paint.
As I peek out from under toasty covers,
My cave eyes squint through the frosted window
At the diamond sparkled landscape.
Bare branches are encased in cold, slippery glass
And rows of clear stalactites hang bat-like—
Daggers which drip with the transparent blood
of Old Man Winter.


I become a child again,
Savoring the tasteless texture of icicles
And leaving impressions of angels,
Draped with dazzling purity.
Only the round, carrot nosed soldier
Stands guard over strategic snow forts
As I plummet down the snow-covered hill
In my saucer sled.~


Pamela West-Finkle