I remember when I saw my favorite shade of sky.
It was white – snow blanketed the atmosphere
like other poets would say it blanketed the ground.
I felt so at home under the fluffy, puffy dome.
I was inside, it felt like a house, not the outside.
The walls were the fog at the end of street,
and the bed could be anywhere –
so long as you didn’t die of cold feet.
To ask for the weather to stay here forever
leaves you conjuring that phrase once more –
“If we didn’t have bad things, we wouldn’t know what good was.”
But again I find myself wishing
for just a little more snow.