The snow has come and after shoveling for an hour with my daughter, it is gone. There was seven to twelve inches of winter's treasure in the drive. The snow plow drivers always do their best and try to pack more of the white winter blessings into my driveway.
I do want to say, the drivers of the snow plows did do a great job. The roads were passable all day long and were actually bare by the afternoon. The following poem is written about the storm and hopefully, it is the last poem about snow that I write this year.

It was the marching of a million little feet,
All around me I hear their footpads falling.
Softly prowling, their footsteps; stealthy and discreet.
Hiding in the bushes, whispering and calling.
It is dark. I am alone. I hear them surround.
They come closer, invading nearby lands.
In ever mounting  numbers they gather around.
They move ever forward to clutch me with outstretched hands,
Steadily forward, I'm pressed on every side.
Battle surrounds me. I am blind and see naught.
Resistance is futile. There's no place to hide.
I am covered by their unrelenting onslaught,
The war rages on, pieces swirl around my head.
The battlefield is littered with bodies laid low.
Each day I am forced to clean up the combat's dead.
I wish this winter war would end, I hate the snow.