So fine is the snow this morning that I didn’t realize
until I sat down with my coffee that it was falling
still, tiny particles of frozen beauty, ghostly pale,
like time itself, leaving an ever-deeper accretion
measured in inches and feet and years and decades,
dustings of white flakes and fleeting seconds
accumulating in a form both heavy and ephemeral.
What shall we do with this day, with any day ever,
But shake off what we can, get the motor running,
humming something like a song, breathe in the air,
clothe ourselves against the bitter cold moments,
trudging, marveling, as time and snow fall still?
