If snow would come and bleach the usual landscape,
crystallizing each toxin in the sky,
rendering them aesthetic if not harmless,
I could live without the sleigh bells our people
have known for generations only in

a variety of commercial settings, and sing
perhaps “Undecided” by Django and Stephane.
On Twelfth Night I don’t want an ersatz
Alistair Sim or parading munchkins
but just the snow and maybe a power outage

so we can watch the flying squirrels raid
the never quite empty feeders and listen
for the impotent wail of tires spinning
on SUVs, and several blocks away
the faithful fire engines and competent roar

of plows on the primary arteries,
but otherwise the silence of the stars.
That has some pedigree, as do the cries
of children loosed outdoors to play on ice,
to sled and throw snowballs in dangerous

exhaltations, sentiment tonight’s excuse
for regression, but noises we can block out
by the fire. Let the desperate work go on,
and young ones learn to gather heads: we have
already that, and this, and maybe more.