• It’s snowing, she giggled with delight,
    she’s six and three-quarters, you know.
    My sister’s not alright.
    She’ll laugh and play and sing,
    but we don’t treat her quite the same,
    she’s special, fragile, breaking.
    That one’s mine, she chides,
    we really love her, you know.
    But still we try to hide.
    She gives us presents, everyone,
    a little different, a little strange,
    more than we’ve ever done.
    It’s not Christmas yet, she grins,
    we all nod our heads, no matter what.
    She knows what no one mentions.
    She won’t have another Christmas day,
    just this one in hot July,
    it doesn’t matter, what we don’t say.
    It’s snowing, she murmurs,
    it’s snowing in July.