You loved the snow in January,
When winter’s breath was new.
When it was blemishless and sparkled white,
As pure as morning dew.
You loved the snow this morning,
As you fetched your boots and coat,
Then you set out to trample it,
This freshly fallen snow.
With fingers chilled, you came inside,
Left your boots beside the door,
And lamented at the slushy lawn,
You once sang praises for.
You hate the snow this afternoon,
And for all your loving talk,
It’s with loathing that you speak of which,
You must shovel from your walk.
Your love you felt in January,
Was finite, and unfair.
Better to love the snow for its chill or its glimmer,
Then to fall in love with things that aren’t there.