It doesn’t snow like it used to.

Now, flakes turn into drops

and land on the windshield or pavement

or just plunk,

don’t drift and light

unexpected.

Now,

it’s the snowplow’s chore to move it around.

Men fasten the plow to the front of the truck,

waiting for this:

each snowfall for them is rent, or oil bill, or groceries.

These men,

as soon as the fourth of July’s last paper plates are in the trash

mutter in relief, “Winter’s coming.”

But years back,

when it snowed a lot,

watching from the window,

ground and branches turning white,

you’d know adventures were ahead:

a snow fort shaped like an igloo

you’d climb a tunnel to get inside

then you could make shelves

put your wet mittens on them

while you blew warm breath onto red fingers.

Then, you could curl up in the snow fort,

somehow it was warm in there,

and you could stay all day

and no one would know

where you were.