An Ode to Snow, or: Odious Snow
It seems all right on autumn days,
sometimes a silent fall by night.
Some flakes of white, a flurry’s haze.
To kids much fun; to me a fright.
Back then those flakes, so innocent,
melted as they hit the ground,
and made us glad that summer’s heat
had gone away for another round.
“It’s so pretty,” we cry with glee,
and go outside to search the sky
for what seems much like eye candy;
which, by March, will make us cry.
It’s beautiful, some people say –
That first hint of the time to come.
Some people want to run and play
but I’m not fooled, I’m not that dumb.
Oh sure, back then the white on green
contrasts and doesn’t stick around.
But soon our patience has been spent:
Its fall brings fourth the moaning sound
of weather-worn across the land:
The shovelers, salters, wounded all
by slips on ice and frostbit hands
and hips we’ve fractured in the fall
on ice that will let no one stand.
The stuff won’t stay just stuff, you see.
It turns to slush across the land,
sometimes to ice, too black to see.
And that’s when all the trouble starts.
It might melt some, but soon it looks
to lay there heavy, off the charts
of all that’s in the record books.
Oh, you can sand, and you can salt
and you can scrape till day is gone
while praying that this stuff will halt
and you will someday see your lawn.
Then you shovel, scoop and throw
and build up piles of grayish slush
until you hear a roar and know
the snow plow’s coming with a rush
to bury you in still more white,
right where the cleaning was just done.
For weeks to come this is your plight,
while all that time you see no Sun.
Just more gray clouds, that drop their load
right where the forecast said they’d not.
until you snap and get your gun –
some dope forecaster must be shot
for fooling with our brains this way,
when moods and minds are about to snap
And we all want someone to pay
For landing us in this white crap.
The Weather Channel is our foe,
the forecast’s off a country mile.
If we could go and see their show
we’d wipe the floor up with their smile.
But they’re not scared of one darn thing
because, before they can get wacked
we all drop dead from shoveling:
A massive blizzard heart attack.
It seemed so innocent at first,
a squall back there, a flurry here.
but now we’re sure winter’s a curse,
and this time just won’t end, we fear.
We’re terrified of heating bills,
our budgets scream in agony.
The furnace blower gives us chills,
while gas suppliers laugh with glee.
And yet we just can’t turn heat down.
Oh sure, we manage in November,
but by the time the new year comes
the cold is all that we remember.
We’ll sell our souls for extra heat
but all we get are winter storms
that bring more moisture, frozen sheets
in every slippery, frigid form.
It starts out looking nice and white
and kind of pretty, I’ll admit.
but soon it’s gray and slushy blight --
No sane man likes it; not one bit.
And still it comes! It starts in fall
then buries us the winter through
and ends in spring, making all
the skin between turn ugly blue.
By now you’re all familiar with
this sad, depressing time of year.
If only it was fearful myth –
Mother Nature’s frozen tears.
But this sad story’s all too real,
my tragic tale of frigid woe:
We’re sentenced again, without appeal
To another year of #%@&*! Snow.