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I’m waiting like a child on Christmas Eve,
waiting for dawn to show me that the snow
is finally here. It’s falling, I believe,
but I’ll need more of morning light to know.

I’m waiting on the dawn to make the snow
reveal itself against the row of pines.
I need a minute more of light to know
it’s snow that’s coming down in blurred white lines

revealed against the row of darker pines.
I’m praying that it hasn’t turned to rain—
it’s snow that’s coming down in blurred white lines.
I’m counting on the snowstorms that remain

and praying that it hasn’t turned to rain.
The snow is here. It’s falling, I believe.
I’m counting down the snowstorms that remain
and waiting like a child on Christmas Eve.

—Robert W. Crawford

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