Fresh Powder

(c) 2012 by Tom King

A Texas boy, I’ve never seen

   Fresh powder, soft, nearly dry

It kicks up on my boot toes

   As I pass shuffle-footed alongside the dog

Two pair of footprints and a row of holes

   Where my cane punctures the pristine sheet of snow.

It’s night now – me and the dog

   Lookin’ for a place to pee.

She’s never seen snow like this before

   And rambles herky-jerky ranging back and forth

Sticking her nose under bushes, into little drifts

   Snorting when she gets a noseful, shaking her head.

The path and snow-packed road wend away

   Toward a lamppost at a corner someway off

Tempting us along like children

   Sneaking down the aisle of an empty church

To steal a peek at things upon the altar

   The snow, like linen drapes lying softly over the pews.

Fresh powder softly laid lends a holy stillness

   Over the cold, dark world tonight.

Reflects the moonlight scattering little stars

   Like jewels along the way ahead.

Breathless, still, yet almost a kind of music

   An aerie song of distantly remembered home.