The tenderness of snow flaming
from the glass sky, unending delight
on the meadow, forcing the stream,
foraging the cedars and maples,
frosting the few stars left in heaven.
A witchcraft of sorts, a staple
for springs, the purity of what sticks,
a garment of delirium, chastity.
This is how it descends, flying ribbons
and fluttering moths, candles reflecting
the little light left to this evening.
The shadows open and close, my heart
flits to a bird, one glint in the eye
of this storm, lingering over the pond.
