It’s common knowledge to the Eskimo,
That there are all of 58 names for snow,
Because their world is full of it,
They feel the need to define each bit.
In my world there is only one,
Which somehow just takes all the fun,
Out of these beautiful, jewel-like crystals of ice,
That turn everything into shades of white,
Each one perfect, each one unique,
That give the world a dash of chic,
And turn the familiar into something unknown,
A children’s playground, an adult-free zone.
There is nothing like waking to that tell-tale glow,
Of a fall of miraculous, virgin snow.