Natural Snow Sonnet Poem by David Welch

It comes from the sky, white, powdery gifts,
upsets may, but gets us vibrating,
we call in from work, get cover for shifts,
no way we are not participating.
The lots are plowed roughly, but well enough,
we see the white streak of trails on the hill,
blast through the snow, there is never too much,
use rock skis so the good ones don't get killed.
A run that's boring exhausts us today,
sweating in the air that makes water freeze,
the soft, springy stuff on which we now play
lets us bound joyously through silent trees;
when it doesn't come, the snow we must make,
but that's hamburger, the real stuff is steak!