Someone filled the valley
with fluffy madness;
someone dumped moondust
on the terracotta roofs.
We ski down to the diner
in the middle of the road;
dunes of untouched snow
freeze exalted shouts.
We peer in through the foggy window,
then skis are propped outside the door;
we wind our scarves around the
loaded coat rack. Tomato soup
and giddy voices fill
the dark fake-wood
inside - it’s the only day in history
they’ve run out of hot chocolate.
On the hill by the bandstand,
students race a bike and sled in a
harebrained laugh at nature.
Professor-parents would complain,
but old knit gloves are out and
forming icy snowballs,
and the even older folk have
come to referee. Snow angels
dot the village–and not all are
child sized.
Someone spilled whiteout
on the boundaries of our lives,
and left a whitewashed world
without its fences.
