With apologies to Robert Frost...
Whose snow this is I think I know.
It's ours, and how the piles grow.
It does not see us standing here
With shovel ready, cold with fear.
My dogs must surely think it hard
To poop in such a snowy yard.
And we think of this weather strange;
Could this be caused by climate change?
We ready for the storm ahead
With groceries to keep us fed.
Though soft and white and heaven sent,
I'll curse it when my back is bent.
Yet even though it falls so deep
And drivers whine and swear and weep
I'll sled down hills of joy so steep
Down boyhood hills of joy so steep.