i look outside my window,
hoping that there is snow,
but when i leave my house in the morning
and open up my door,
the cold air breezes past me,
like a ghost it pushes me aback,
tender to the touch of my soft skin,
the skies are weeping tears of black,
though on the floor the ice cracks,
but no crunch of snow snaps.

heavenly and pure is what i know
about the snow which i adore;
it's light,
takes flight,
from a height,
it excites,
wishing for the snow to fall,
but all of which that is at my door
is frost and skies of grey
there is no snow today