It doesn’t snow as often as it used to

or maybe it’s just my imagination.

It could be I’ve simply

merged together all the snows

of my first ten years, along with

a slue of old Christmas movies

into my own idealized version of

a true winter – one that is impossible to find

except, perhaps, in Minnesota, or Montana,

or some other Northern state. But this state

I’ve found myself in is one of longing

for the days of yesteryear,

-

whether imagined o remembered,

and for truckloads of white snow

early on a school day, hoping the old man

who drives the plow got out of bed

slowly this morning though I have to

go to work even if the schools are closed

and even though I would probably

just stay inside wearing wool socks

and watch a press conference because

I’m much too old and much too mature

to make a snowman.