The Truth About Snow

by Len Kuntz

The line meanders out into the street.
Some of us smell cinnamon and chicory,
others a wet compress of an impending storm.
The bored lieutenant rattles change
in his pockets,
the chinking reminding me of sleigh bells
and frostbitten hands,
of that one winter when
I learned the truth about snow.
Back then I was bolder.
“Did you know,”
I said,
“that I am old enough now to
ride
swim
run
fly away
from here forever?”
He held me down
and that was his answer,
the weight of snow
the spikes of blood
the winter white
no longer for this child,
never again.