Ice and snow

Ithaca is picture perfect when it snows. Cosy cottage like houses, pine trees and beautiful lonely lamps, all blanketed by white snow. Hurts the eyes by day, glows deceptively warmly in the moonlight and forms snow men when the university is in session. From the hilltop, you can see the world white. From the warm indoors, you know why the poet fluffs about fluffy snow. You can see the ploughs clearing the road and a lone hooded pedestrian walking through the falling cotton fluffs.
When you become that lone hooded pedestrian, you can hear the tobogganing and snow fight shrieks. You hurry and scurry, seeing the rabbits that dint hibernate. You get out of the falling snow, shake your shoes and reenter the warmth of the home.

When the mercury goes up, you can hear the snow cakes on the roof fall. You can see the snow on the trees cave in. As a few more days go by, a million salt whitened feet tread the road, turning snow to slime, making you wish that ice and snow could sublime. The feet that tread, encrusted white with salt, slip and slither down the sidewalks. The cold wind blows and the slime freezes into ice, tripping the lone walking man. Now, why dint Frost ever write about the downsides of snow and ice?

I am not yet bored of winter. It is dull and grey, but when the feather like snow falls to the ground, I am still enthralled. But not too long can the thralldom of winter hold me. Come March and April, winter will pierce my senses and make me long for the warmth and color. But then will come April and May with spring warmth, brightness and warm rain. And as they say, Rains in spring, flowers in summer bring.

I wait.