The Day it Snowed Forever

By Ben Mitchell 

And in the morning we rose
to find the frozen land in blankets.
So clean, untouched and in between,
before the cluttered footfalls
leave scattered tracks of coffee spills,
angel prints and morning papers.
With radios that say no school
It’s to the closet: hats and mittens – full regalia
and to the ocean free we speed
in puffing plowing boots untied
and air that crackles each new breath
freezing sniffling noses solid.
The plow's arrival‘s always met
with barking dogs and upturned logs
and sand trucks in a row 
still, a thousand diesel rigs could not keep up.
So, armed with rakes and shovels,
clutching climbing ladders – we clean
the walks and roofs and paths
and snowmen only drown when made to soon
in frigid wind of clouds that eat the sun.
And noon is still to soon when plows
return to carve the way
with walnuts cracking walnuts
in crushing palms and shells in piles.
And power outage candles come
from dusty cupboards, game boards under tables
and wood, more wood from distant sheds.
And still the birds so small and gray
leap from branch to frozen branch,
in bitter whispered warbled tones
with cats that crawl too low below the snow.
And sledding afternoons
with wax for runners.
Someone finds a purple flip-flop
floating out of place.
And fabulous rounds of slow-motion football
with must be broken arms
and tracks and tracks and tracks in lawns 
that seem as if armies must have come and gone.
And snowballs fly, with little
brothers buried, and still it falls
in speckled sheets.
And darkness comes to soon
without a moon and cars
that carry candles, bread and milk
of simple dinners, in huddled rooms.
And stories read and off to bed
with pulled up blanket, snuggled warm
we listen to the silent scraping
thousand flakes that fall.
And lids hang heavy on woven eyes as plows
and plows and plows return
with headlights dancing
on the ceiling.