Forty-Eight
I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.
—Mae West
Your shovel slicing, slicing through the snow,
the squeak of soles at seventeen below,
your breath freezing on reindeer cap and mask—
what more could a born blizzard-lover ask?
Only the strength to trench the ten-ton drift
dropped at your door like an early Christmas gift
and the crisp line of work precisely done—
the pristine path beneath a haloed sun.
You pause, panting, to drink with blinking eyes
a draught of sugared spruce and frosted skies;
you pat the puppy frisking at your feet,
then stamp indoors to savor the hearth’s heat
where cider tastes sweeter than vintage wine
and love pretends you still look thirty-nine.
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