by Nick Quaglietta, 1989

This vast checkered tablecloth of white and brown;
A sincere attempt, but the desert cannot hide
Beneath what's called winter in the high plains,
All while the land is still blazing and dry.

Eager winds will race among the mesas,
Chasing ice and snow they meet along their way.
And when it snows, it falls hard and in a hurry
To make the most of what will be a brief stay.

Melted snow mixed with earth - you’ve got chocolate milk,
It’s like spring in New England all winter long,
Only the chill of bleak echoes may linger,
Clear across the plains where the fall is long gone.

Rise the next morning and you’re back in the desert,
A few reminders might remain on the north side,
Assuring you this season was not just imagined,
As if to say that winter had, again, at least tried.