We sat indoors in writing class as flakes began to fall
I watched her eager widened eyes flit restless back and forth
From window to professor and back, not lingering but a moment
Her fingers fidgeted nervously, her toes could not stop tapping
The snow grew quicker, thicker, and wet, piling upon the trees
Her eagerness was tangible, audible- I could almost taste it
The strike of the clock at half-past ten released a blur of joy
Her bag ready-packed ten minutes before, she flew out and down the stairs
She flung the doors wide open with fervent energy
In English thick with Columbian texture, she searched for fitting words
“I love the snow, I love the snow” was all I could make out.
Her thrill then struck me cold, contagious as it were that day
We snatched up snow and packed and pushed it, ardent sculptors we
Feeling slowly abandoned my fingers, though I refused to notice its leave
We laughed and played in pristine joy ‘til our limbs could take no more
And so we left our white wonder-world for comfort and needed warmth
I watched a smile creep up and up, onto her blue-tinted lips
She grinned and spoke but a broken phrase, “the snow, she is beautiful.”


this is the first draft of a poem that i wrote after french class. it was inspired by my friend ronnie, who is from columbia and had never seen snow fall before.