poem of the day November 17 

Eating your

first snow

is a rite of passage

requiring a guide

I told my grandson

as we ran out barefoot

in the dawn

scraping together

two big round balls

of early November snow

We raced inside

to complete the ritual

Where we toasted

the big white balls

of divine water

right before 

taking giant bites 

In no time we

ran out for more