I Search for Snow

I search for snow in a city over 80 at night.

The frozen flakes of halogen glow through the high-rise window,

but they don’t take flight.

A bit of freshly grated parmesan on a pile of mushroom risotto.

The fluff from my daughter’s ripped seal Squishmallow.

But none of these feel quite right.

Royal icing warms quickly to the touch of the knife

spread across a gingerbread cookie,

the glaze a bit like ice.

A winter margarita, the coconut rim busy as Santa’s eyebrows;

he’s a clever sprite.

And the mounds of cellulite by the pool,

well this is not a pleasant sight.

The powdered sugar sifted onto a bunt cake

gleaming in the display window.

The flour flurries flung from a circle of pizza dough

before the pie goes in the wood-stove.

And at day’s close, the firecrackers sizzle shades of light.

At dinner, I notice that five stories above, the neighbors tree glows white.

In the shower, I grate flakes of soap

but they quickly vaporize.

And at breakfast, I hold up a half-eaten fried egg-white,

jiggle it in front of my eyes before taking a bite.

I search for snow in the city, but in this place,

even puddles of soapy water poured on the street

evaporate by twilight.

©2024 | K.F. Hartless

Sia “Snowman”