Waiting for the First Snow

She wakes before the radio
alarms us of the day.
She turns off the timer
and escapes from the fetters
of my heavy arms. She's gone
for a time, until I hear, "tres bon!"
which could mean a number
of things: that wayward plumber
has finally shown, or the scale
is agreeable, or an overnight gale
has made the weather something
worth a French blurting.

She always seems to know
when it will snow. Her hand
out a window is precise
and I trust it: Why dress
for work, or eat, or shower
at such an awful early hour
if the highways close
before my car's unfrozen?
Why leave this warmth
'cause, god, it's like the earth
and I'm comfortably below a boil
underneath a layer of topsoil.
She will join me soon, after
peeking in with a voice full of laughter,
singing, "Snow," and I'll keep
my eyes closed in pretend sleep.
I'll hear her pick up the phone
and the attendant dial tone
in my ear humming: "Responsibility."
But it's silly of me
to keep predicting immediacy.
She will join me soon.