Too late
to turn back from the flurry
of painted snowflakes
on a gossamer wind.

In a
whirlwind they spin
up and upwards
to the timeless lands.

Frozen
specks of crystal;
perfect and unimaginable
melt on my face.

Shadows
fall and they turn
grey and the painter leaves
his canvas unfinished.

A soft
white sea has emerged
below my feet
and immersed the world in white.

Foamy
to wade through and yet
impossible to resist
spoiling the untouched.

Then sun
arrives, and he brings warmth
and light, and so
the sky’s daughters melt in all
their sweet virginity
and the ground is rendered wet
once more.