She Who Dances in Snow

She Who Dances in Snow

Black velvet drapes of dusk
cloak moss covered hills.
The air exhales its chill
as February blooms beneath
a burgeoning gibbous moon.

Wisps of white crystalline
fall — leaping, swirling,
around glowing streetlights
like vagrant moths
courting open flames.

Here! I am here,
the snow falling around me,
falling down like soothing rain,
manna from heaven,
sweet nectar on my tongue.

Thoughts of grandeur
swell inside my mind,
my heart in relevé,
I dance in the gravel driveway
in a pas de deux with the lamppost.

Mr. Stone is taking out the trash,
dragging his bins to the curbside
on this bitter Tuesday night.
He leans against the western wind,
catching a glimpse of my performance.

I pause from my unabashed reverie,
exclaiming, “Snow! It’s snowing!”
as my new neighbor shakes his head,
pondering his odds, wondering his fate
of landing another loon on the block.

Then, with the delight of a child,
I do cartwheels in the fields of white,
waltzing the night away with Old Man Winter.
Yes, I am that crazy Southern girl,
the belle of the winter ball…

She who dances in snow.

Colleen M. Breuning © 2012
February 7, 2012