Snow has been lost from familiar places.
Before it was lost, the presence of snow was announced by a tickle in the nose.
The smell of snow is elusive but like nothing else.
My nose longs for the evanescent smell of snow.
My face longs for the touch of snowflakes.
My tongue remembers the taste of melting flakes.
I miss seeing the white shroud of a blanket of snow across the world.
Where snow remains, it isn’t the same.
Penguins long for the old, familiar snow in the Antarctic.
Snow in familiar places may never be found again.
Old snow may have passed away.
I long for snow.
It may be that only the memory of snow can be saved from eternal loss.
I can’t tell you where to find familiar snow.
If you find snow, dance in it.