snow babies wait amongst the white of december,
cradling their iced-over hearts between cold glass panes;
two dozen of us with eyes glued on the outside,
just counting snowflakes and how many shivers run down our spines.
cold bones shatter the way we wait beneath icicles to drop from the roof,
and we know it's roulette,
but we take our chances and bets on the weather,
odds and ends of inches of snow.
to pass the time after angels dressed in white,
and searing cast iron tattoos,
we wait.
you all prefer the other seasons;
not the quiet that comes with ours,
but you too,
will wait to see;
will watch white fall from the sky
because our storm is just beginning.