Photo by Carrie McKamey


With raised fist and gnarled face
I accuse the skies.

I have been waiting for snow,
wishing for snow,
praying, hoping, and fishing for snow.

I have been daring snow,
oh where-ing snow, and
(for reverse psychology’s sake)
not-give-a-care-ing snow.

All this and not one single flake.

But as my fist drops and my eyes come back to earth,
I sigh,
“God knows best.”
And this is the proof:
that between the second coming
and the fall of man,
I can get so worked up about something
like the weather,
and can fill a book with idle words
by which to be judged.
(Did I say not one single flake?
Well, there might be one here…)

Yet, I believe you understand.
I believe you do not think it petty
to be a man,
or to care for the sparrow,
or to pour artistry
into the icy iron-work
whose feathery falling
makes winter crunch deliciously
like the year’s dessert.

For this season
you precipitated:
spirit crystallized as flesh,
deity danced where the wind willed—
out from its cloudy veil,
down through empty skies,
and into arms that waited