Rainy days & white Christmases

I guess the sky likes to cry a lot 
these days.
It tears apart the clouds
and pours itself onto the weathered ground
screaming its woes
while people on the Earth
wish for snow.
But it won't come, will it?
Or it disappears soon after arriving,
the sky snatching it back into its airy gray void. 
Christmas carols ring out
somewhere far away
and I almost cry,
since the weather hasn't seemed to catch up.
Is this what our world has become?
I mourn the white Christmases of the past
and I hope for just one more,
just one more year of blissful ignorance,
of cookies and carols and mistletoe.
Just one winter
not spent screaming at unforgiving clouds —
or really, them screaming at me.
The ground is slick with the tears of the sky.
My face is wet from the tears in my eyes.
We have an odd relationship, the sky and me.
Lights twinkle on the Chistmas tree.
I wear a hat and a scarf and a woolen sweater inside,
even though my skin burns from the blazing fire.
I breathe in the scent of pine, and
let it be enough.
It's enough.
It has to be.
I feel for my soul,
nearly thirteen years old now,
but both older and younger,
and I find her,
finally back after six lost months,
and I let that be enough. 
I whisper to the stars every night
and let that be enough.
And when I go to sleep at night,
the white Christmases dance behind my eyes,
each delicate, intricate snowflake different,
yet the same.