I dream of a snowfall with all the white, winter glory that I’ve read in stories, that I’ve seen in movies, and I want it truly, you see.

I want a winter fair with icy stairs that I have to hold onto the rail or lose my footing.

I wish for a cold, so profound as to implode the idea of cold in this summer utopia of the sad soggy south in Alabama.

I want it to freeze, to seize up every road, every highway headed to or from my way, so there’s no way in the world to thaw in less than two weeks.

I desire a spire, a wire, attire to roast weenies in the snow around a bonfire, basking in the falling snowflakes and pleasant conversations.

I hope to sit in twos, wearing warmer winter shoes, sharing stories of times long gone like final whispers wandered away without care.