It never gets old, this wonderland of snow.
Always, it astonishes, then disappears before
you can even begin to take it for granted.
I love that about it–the way it convinces you
that magic is real. Even though it plays
its now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t game,
you can’t doubt its presence or its beauty
as it lies there, piled on the branches,
or shimmers in gossamer curtains that fall
in the merest breath of a breeze.
How can there be enough tiny flakes
to cover all this ground? Each twig?
Each trunk and blade and stem?
And each one of them a diamond
full of starlight, enough to hold
all the wishes in the world
and then some.