At the edges of a season the snow falls thick and fast.
Filling in potholes, saving gas in the fishtail and glide.
Fluff melts in to your skin soaking cuffs, backs of sweaters.
The north wind mingles with the west, nudging along instead of biting.
At the edges of the season a snowstorm is fun
The reminder we need to enjoy what we have.
There is no teeth gnashing, clothes rending despair of the icy deep winter.
Up to your knees in fluff, no ice to break through.
It is the edge of the season with the muffled sounds
Waves of curled snow banks in fields preparing to shake themselves awake.
Well water tastes the sweeter for the melt deep below and
I can feel the sap beginning to flow.