The rain on my windows would surely be snow
If only the temp were at seven below.
Alas it is warmer and soggy therefore,
And sadly devoid of the snow I adore.
Magical flakes in the air all around
Humming that noiseless, intangible sound,
Weaving their way like a drunken parade
Crystalline strands in a wintertime braid.
Bother it all that the spell's not yet cast,
Large plunking droplets are still falling fast,
Earth knows no cover of angelic white,
The dark of deep autumn has yet to take flight.