A sharp crystal downs and downs
a million dozen times, piling
over hours and coming out round.
When we walk, dodging plows,
the flakes seek out our sounds
and gather them into banks.
We can't find the sidewalk.
The imperfection of wrought iron,
hats and cars all white, all gone.
Forgetfulness descended in bits,
frozen pink by street light.
When we wake, we don't dare
go outside, slowly knowing
we are not angels but impressions
prone in the snow, in love with blushed air
and surprised anything can change,
can make us change overnight.
Thankful, hemlocks thankful for the weight.
(c) Copyright 1999. The Christian Science Publishing Society