Snowpocalypse

They’re forecasting flashlights,
pop-tarts, soup, warm boots,
overnight neighborhoods
of four-room igloos,
the mayor on tour
with his fire truck tech crew,
the cars for days unmoving,
buried in their graveyard rows—
and every pair of jeans soaked,
every sock snow-choked
and wilting in a carpet puddle,
frozen stubble, ten below—

but today it’s only misting—

and though I had believed
and dressed today accordingly—

it isn’t even cold,
and I’m misting in my coat,
and now out in this half-cloud
the words those prophets spoke
of a blizzard sound absurd—
like I’m living by a wisecrack,
a dramatic farmer’s almanac,
unnecessary heart attack

(and sometimes I’m not even sure
if You meant You would return)—

and oh tomorrow Your great snow
will cover all that I have known.