By Elaine Magliaro
Just before Christmas
we have an unexpected storm.
Now snow covers the yard,
with a downy quilt.
The apple tree, the plum and pear trees
have grown thin white wings,
look ready to fly away.
The stout lilac bush
floats above the ground
like a fallen cloud.
We get our sleds, the silver saucer,
and race up the incline to the snow-crusted hedge.
We whoosh down to the garden
through a light whipped cream world.
Everything has turned the color of winter.
Even the sky, marshmallow-white,
has forgotten how to be blue.