Unsummoned,
the first wet flakes
drifted lazily through streetlight glow,
finding their rest on green hedges,
apparently oblivious to the
incongruity.
They whispered
in their descent: we are manna,
crumbs for starved souls;
and so they tugged at our threads and
drew us speechless from our homes
to be filled.
We forgot the cold,
swept out into a pale sea of grace.
The sky wrapped us gently in orange,
as the moonlight pooled
in our midnight angels of snow
and sand.
Rapt in unearthly glory,
we reluctantly returned inside; we nestled
‘round the extra log on the fire; the
final drops of some icy spell melted down
our faces, and we succumbed to
warm dreams,
while just beyond
the frostbitten panes, it fell
and mercilessly it fell
until the trees cried out
under the weight of God’s terrible beauty
and snapped.
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