Waffles and whipped cream

Light, lazy wisps
of fog, and mist, and
snow flurries
hinting at
a someday snowfall

When all around me
everything feels old:
the clouds, the wet pavement,
the flutter of papers on my desk,
the last pages of my weekly calendar,
my tired eyes,
my weary spirit

And here in these days,
I am the gray sky:
neutral, serene,
not unhappy

But if I were twenty again,
or sixteen,
or six,

Would I not find kinship
with the few twinkles
of first snowflakes,
falling like powdered sugar
over the top of a
warm, crisp waffle,
and covered in cream?

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