Furtive flurry: you're not quite snow
unbidden, wandering, tumbling messenger.
Are you a harbinger or a trickster, lonely visitor?
As I watch you skitter and flit on the breeze I note
you lack snow's purpose.
You lack snow's purpose as you dance from Heaven to earth
sent from those,
those hexiform souls on high,
that crystalline chorus what has chosen you for us.
Which are you (harbinger or trickster)?
For your mystery has left us to the computational auguries of weather prophets
or the divination of our own guts.
Our tired guts, still sore with the memory of your comings Winters
past, still sad with the memories of Winters that have passed
with your promise, but not your delivery.
You dance before us as a puzzle crafted in six sides
as the weather prophets pass their judgement, but our own guts
and knees and trick elbows from that time when we were fifteen
As we each stare out our window and wonder if this means
we can take the day off.
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