Snowflakes

What is it that is falling

There upon my lawn,

Floating, twisting, turning

Waft by a gentle breeze

A tiny snow flake

Born of wind and sky

High sailing free and far

Till mother earth looms up

To catch and hold

This fragile bit of moisture

In her lap.

 

But, ah, ‘tis yet another

Following close,

A game of tag to end

Within my view. 

And yet another, and one more still,

When all around I sense

That high above

Some high etherial door,

Has opened to the world; 

Spilling its points of white

In numbers multiplied to such

An avalaanche of fluttering flakes

No one can count. 

 

Were one to look beyond

The limits of the eyes

To search there deep within

What beauty would leap up

To flush the wonder of

A perfect symmetry;

Designs magnificant

And everyone a masterpiece

Within itself,

Each tiny flake a poem

Of perfect grace and tender charm.

 

A million flakes piled high;

The streets and roads

Alas, a wilderness of slush and ice

And battles grim to win against

The endless falling snow.

What tragedy that we are caught

In ways that make us fight

And writhe in deep distress.

When all around we cannot see

A hidden beauty, a million perfect gems

In drifted snow

Lost in an agony of shackled eyes.

(January 1969)