First Snow Poem by Bert Bell

I brought my bag of words to the park this morning; it's cold, but refreshing; so cold that I'm the only one sitting at a picnic table. I open a blank page of my notebook, ready to serve it its long-awaited breakfast of tasty nouns and verbs, flavoured with a few juicy adjectives and adverbs.

The first manna of winter is parachuting down, and at this temperature, it should last. I see my neighbour, Tom, coming with his Frisbee-chasing black Lab; my trusty notepad will have to wait awhile longer. I'll just throw a Frisbee or two, and explain that I have work to do.

There we are; that was fun, a nice chat with some exercise, and it didn't ruin my day. The park, now broadloomed wall-to-wall white, bears only the footprints of a man and his dog, and the trees, stripped clean by recent high winds, look cold and bleak.

I give up; my hands are too cold. It's time to head back to the house, throw a few logs on the fire, and bring these words to life.
That's better; the fire's crackling and hissing, and the coffee's hot; perfect conditions for writing.