Intellimation - Keltic Poet Gene

Snow Child

It's snowing! It's snowing!
The kid in me cries for joy.

Look at the million billion flakes.
Are they all different, or all the same?
What the heck do I care,
as long as it sticks!

I sure hope it's good packing snow;
that's the best kind
for making snowballs and snowmen
and playscapes of pure white.

Snow makes the air quieter.
Silence prevails my landscape,
except for some skidding cars
and snowplows scraping away.

Oh! I don't mind walking in that
slip-sliding sort of way on such
a snow white beautiful day.
Well, as long as I don't take a header.

I don't care if anyone looks
when I stick my tongue out
to catch the swirling flakes.
They look like teeny-tiny fairies.

Oh don't worry, I still remember the rule
about not eating yellow snow.
But that white fresh stuff
sure tastes mighty-mighty good.

Yes, my glasses freeze up,
as the snow melts on them.
But I still see well enough
to enjoy this special day.

No more snow days for me anymore.
That's a shame.
But that's part of the rules
in this growing-up game.

My hair, what's still there,
blends nicely with the snow.
I even been heard to say now
"You think this is bad
remember the snow of ____"

I might have aged, but I'm not old.
In fact, I will never grow old,
as long as I love the snow.