I know I’m obsessive. I have been since youth.
There’s no point denying that hard and fast truth.
When I get a teaser that snowflakes might fall,
I’m on my computer, awaiting the call
on how many inches of snow to expect.
(No wonder my friends give me little respect.)
Though I prefer summer and hot humid days,
a possible snowstorm can make my eyes glaze.
I’m not into skiing down white, frozen hills
or building a snowman with powdery frills.
In fact, there’s not much about snow that I like
except when I’m told that a blizzard might strike.
I know that it’s childish, not fitting my age.
Though I’m up in decades, I’m no wizened sage.
Yes, snow still excites me, at least from afar.
All common sense leaves as it bids au revoir.
© Susan Schoeffield