Large, Red Snowflakes flit
To the ground. The wind
Carries them around,
Forcing them into
Strange places; Locked in
Grilles; Drowned in Rivers;
Caught in the Smoke of
Roaring Fires; Blown
Into places that
They do not belong,
Like Fields, Sewage,
And the garage. Orange
Yellow, some even Green,
And, of course, Red.
Underneath them exists
Some sort of Ground: Grass,
Asphalt, Tombstones--It
Could be anything.
Renewal will come,
All will be shown once
More, Schedules will
Resume--But, until
Then, all that is seen
Are Large, Red Snowflakes
Scattered on the Ground.