When The Snow Falls

When The Snow Falls
I tune the radio to a good jazz station.
The sky is low and gray and snow begins
to fall with a faint ticking sound as it hits
the dry leaves. I hold my breath and listen.
The moment seems fragile as a spun-glass bird.
It falls thickly, whitely, deeply, endlessly.
I toast the occasion with a glass of wine,
eat summer plump figs and goat cheese,
discover you don't have to be young to feel young.