I awoke this morning to the first snow of the season

but Waldo wasn't here to share it.

Waldo's been gone for eight months now,

but somehow I still expected to experience the annual ritual.

The widened eyes when the white blanket is first glimpsed

through the open back door.

The zig-zag snowplow, nose beneath the fluffy surface,

back and forth across the yard

as if to reinforce the wonder

that the miracle had come again and

the season of snow was upon us once more.

The eight-month old puppy, huge and gangly,

seeing snow for the first time and finding that the world

had blessed him with a place that was especially his.

The three-year-old, standing in the blizzard,

nose to the North wind, long hair blowing straight back.

The eight-year-old, waking on my return from work,

standing up and shaking off the warm white comforter,

under which he had been soundly sleeping.

The old dog, still delighted at the first snow,

rolling back and forth, making "angels".

Wherever the souls of good dogs go,

I pray that there is lots of snow.

Marc Myers 11/14/97