The first snow:

You can smell it on your tongue.

Feel it in your nose.

When it’s almost begun

The anticipation grows.

The forecast has been there for days.

Time enough to prepare.

Some dry kindling to start a flame

And dry wood for it to glow.

I’ll met you by the fireside.

When the first white flakes do sow,

From pregnant skies o’erhead.

This is magic don’tcha know?

We’ll drown our sarrows with a drank

And we will mock gawd chair.

“Bon Hiver” to those who celebrate

The end of yair grows nair.

This love we burn just like the fire

Will keep us warm these nawts

Until the light returns again

And we anew begain.

.

.

(Will update later with a little music I wrote and a screen shot. No time now, oh and that last line. I will be trying to fix that too. Suggestions?)