It’s mid October, the sky turns gray.
The clouds spit snow pitifully,
pathetically, but continuously if falls.
Like tiny puffs of airy white smoke
Spewing forth from within a
slowly awakening machine,
coughing flakes so small that we
laugh at their sad attempts.
We smile as they melt
the instant that they fall upon
the still unfrozen ground.
The not quite dormant grass rebels
and quietly repels their accumulation.
But within their icy crystalline structures
they know and carry with them
a silent threat, a promise that
the once sleeping machine
will shake off the dust
of a hazy summer’s slumber.
The waking machine will stretch out
And charge into our short-lived
sense of cozy autumnal harmony.
And once it remembers who it was
before we lulled it to sleep with our
talk of springtime, its warmth
blooming flowers and singing birds.
It is then that the machine will fulfill
each and every October snowflake’s promise,
that Old Man Winter is back.

10/20/2020

Posted on 10/20/2020
Copyright © 2025 Cole Miller