No Show Snow by Terri Kirby Erickson

In the deep South, when we go to sleep
with the possibility of snow and wake
to the sound of disappointment in the form
of pelting rain, we should be compensated,
in my view, with fields of blooming bowl
of cream peonies, each flower fully formed,
every petal softer than cashmere, the color
of snow mixed with clotted cream. Sadly,
there would be no ice-covered hills for kids
to slide down on their sleds, no men made
of snow. But think of the fragrance—rich
and powdery—of so many peonies at the
pinnacle of their beauty, how miraculous
it would be for thousands of flowers to
appear all-at-once, overnight. Bees would
shed their winter jackets and feast among
them, delirious with nectar. Deer would
stroll through them as rabbits zig and zag
with wild abandon, unseen by predators.
At least it would be something more than
brown lawns and bare trees, the skies gray
as gym socks. If not snow, let there be this—
multiple fields of cream-colored peonies
glistening with drops of cold winter rain.



Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” ONE ART, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.