Snow Day Marne Wilson My dog doesn’t want me to write this poem. He thinks we need to leave for the park right now, for if we wait too long, other dogs will be the first to mark the virgin snowfall with paw prints, pee, and poop. He knows there are more important things than the writing and reading of poems, especially on winter’s first white morning while the wind whistles through the trees. Let others sit by the fire sipping cocoa; we were made to explore. For once, I admit he is 100% correct in his argument, and so this poem ends, sooner than I’d expected but not a moment too soon for him.
Published on May 18, 2017