Fresh Powder
(c) 2011 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.
