On the second Saturday morning of spring
we stood ‘round the transfer station
transferring our trash
and talking about the weather.

“You know,” he said
“this isn’t real snow.”

And I told him ‘bout
how when I was young
we called it
poor man’s fertilizer.

He chuckled and said
“Seems we’re all a little poorer
these days.”

But the flurries lasted all day
and as I drove my daughter
to a sleepover
the headlights
illumined the flakes.

Spring snow still glistens.