Evergreen Notes

In Florida, snowflakes rarely fall—

this far south, maybe once or twice

a sprinkler head might dress the golf course

in a coat of winter white,

soon undressed by morning light.

❄

Here, as fall fades, I listen in shirtsleeves

to winter becoming story,

but I'm not too south to have forgotten

the fur of my winter coat,

that first Minnesota snow on my tongue

like popcorn strung on evergreen fir—

a flake

melting memory.

❄

My first snow-borne kiss

under a pale pink-and-white beanie

her purple lips pressing me

into New Hampshire's fresh powder.

❄

Cheeks flushed red

from a shot of Yukon Jack with Dad,

just a nip to warm the bones—

missing Mom,

a spirit felt close

but too far from our first snow

to hear her whisper, just a sip.

❄

Too far south

for winter rituals

where fall turns to ice

thawing in a whiskey glass—

but not too far to taste

that first winter burn,

the oak and smoke

of evergreen notes

melting into ethers

of nostalgia.