(It’s my birthday. I’m being hopeful. Call this my prayer.)
The hope of children during quiet slumber,
The empty shelves, and fearful whispers,
It approaches hell or high water.
The weather report reviews all possibilities
Of the enormous inbound front.
The void-less space cowering in wait,
The bitter cold, and sweet crisp melodies,
They take the whole area by storm.
Overnight or during daylight causing
Chaos and confusion widespread.
Soon come morning next everyone will know.
The absence of color will mean it snowed.