Winter

No one gives a shit

about the pristine fluffy snow

drifting gently to the ground

in late January.

A new inch or two

on top of all the rest,

covering the frozen dog crap,

soon to be trampled

by boots and car tires,

soon to turn

into dirty, gray, salty slush

on the streets and sidewalks.

And you don’t want to shovel again,

and you don’t want to scrape

your frozen windshield,

and traffic will be slow today,

and your feet will never be warm again,

and the sky will never be blue again,

and you’re just sick of it all,

and why do you even live here?

And if, while driving to work that morning,

you happen to notice the black tree limbs

blanketed in white,

you might think,

oh that’s pretty,

but honestly,

you’d be fine

if you never saw another flake.