Outside your frosted window,
The carpets of white shrink to small clouds,
Clouds that only come out when the weather is warm.
And you reason that this okay, this is good;
The perfect amount of snow on a warming green lawn.
But you know these tiny white clouds
Covered in footprints and winter’s memories
Will soon disappear into colorless puddles,
A water neither white nor blue.

The newspapers and the groundhog and your friends
All celebrate the melting of what’s bitter and beautiful.
But why is gentle yellow air the fuel to our excitement
When kitchen floors are tiled white
To be pure and sharp and shine.

But unlike them you enjoy your time
In a place both bitter and beautiful,
Not afraid to spin around outside
Before the defrost button is pressed.