The kind of flakes which catch your eyelashes and make you blink.
Obnoxious yet beautiful things.
The dragonflies of a December night on an April day.
Yet as close as we are now to May,
There's no delight in dragonflies of frosted ice.
You catch my eye,
And land upon my windshield just to be scraped away.
Goodbye spring day,
Let us welcome back the winters bite of a dragonfly,
Which flew away.
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 10/28/2016.
Rare like gold
Beautiful . . .
Iced water dripping
Don't let your tears flood
you're iced water that's dripping
a snow flake that so sharp it can be killing
you won't let the tears flood
iced water dripping
so sharp it could be killing