Anticipation #2

I sidestep sleep with the help
of coffee and cigarettes.

The latter rationed to last
until exhaustion overtakes caffeine--
or snow falls
come the wee hours of the morning.

The sky is an uninterrupted grey
of dense clouds--a convex, bulging
surface of unimaginable weight
which I pray it will release soon.

The night is silent--
Pregnant.
Expecting.

And I, ever impatient, look to
the window periodically, continually--
wiping mist-turned-droplets off the glass pane,

hoping to see
a sprinkle of white flakes--
not quite solid, not quite liquid--
or a mountain-head mantled in white.

Though all I see is darkness and stillness,
a quiet like a cat crouching--
muscles tensed and hackles raised;

though the smattering of fluorescent lights
through my window mock me
with snowflake patterns as streetlights
expand in the mist:

I pray that it comes.
In stingy spurts that won’t settle
or a heavy blanket that will stifle everything
except the morning sun.

And with it, pray
you remember me.