Non-Erotic PoetrySnowflakesipping margaritas
on Hudson Beach,
just looking out
at the midnight sun
sparkling on the crests
of each wave in the Arctic sea.
A polar bear snout
pokes out of the cool lodgepole pines,
sniffing our seal-like scent.
Just like the last three,
it won't attack,
its milieu being ice,
rather than these warm sands.
But then again, who knew
they would like
coconuts and grapefruit
so much? They say things are
changing, that the last snowflake
fell somewhere in Antarctica last July,
a tiny hexagonal crystal
robbed of its lethal powers.
It won't be missed.
Not in a paradise like this.
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