Aphrodite humors snow's request for

barefootedness--as if asking after weight.

Her heels presume no more than the

palms of her hands.

So winter takes her by the feet, & she

needn't endear herself by saying she

could only imagine.

Aphrodite goes on, in a way that uses

her name in vain.

It's all white, but her whereabouts are

whiter--she remains as what has its rest

of a field.

Even snow leverages the sky--while

Aphrodite wiggles her rosy toes on its

plinth.

She could almost topple into their

suspension--though death will come to

its senses.

Aphrodite receives snowflakes the way

a saint does devotees--their hexagonal

identities.

Exiting six exits at once, one at a time--

forming, floating, melting.

That's when snow stares at itself, creating

a glow seen galaxies away.