When Snow Is Just a Memory

Kenyon Wells
When Snow Is Just a Memory

I look ahead to a day
of yellow and tanned afternoons,
sunlight permeating the air,
sky blue hours of abandonment.
A murmuring of a breeze
shifting green leaves
is the only sound I hear
like the guileless and intimate
whisperings of children in quiet play
on days that are forever summer.
Gone for good the burden of wool
or the need for down jackets
in this gloveless, hatless nirvana
where the memory of snow is
just a seldom told fable
by an old man from somewhere else.