Piece by piece it comes fluttering down,
slowly gathering at the angles of ledges,
sides of doors, and sides of roofs.
At first, it appears small, insignificant,
a slight drop on the shoulder.
But over time, it grows and abounds,
leaving streets white and tickled by clover flakes.
Piles amass aside all streets,
and quickly the blanket bellows.
The thickness is yoked and creamed in white.
And while the pile on the lawn gets thicker and thicker,
the fine top layer of snow glistens supreme,
like the dust of sand atop beach dunes, crafted by wind.
And the crunch of the snow underneath the boot,
all compact and hard the bottom sheets cling.
It is the ground it scratches, attaching its root,
forming to become ice, permanently entombed.
And all outside is desolate, none afoot.
'Til the wind stops, none dare cross,
the ice creamed snow balls collecting till nigh.
Crimea, the Prize as Always
2 months ago