Like snowflakes
the lace
mesh of net
curtain drapes
the window
that admitted your entrance.
You and the wind
to fan flames of a smokey fire,
giving tongues to the chimney troath.
There you now sit
between
gossamer and pane
wondering how it's shut
against elements raw
puzzling the porthole with paw
through which you wish to explore
to chase whisked leaves
and shadows fleet.
The window opens no more.