Every snowflake is an electric light of love, molecular
kisses tissue-thin coasting down from heaven’s
arboretum with drifts of frigid sweet alyssum
falling, falling, falling in pieces carrying remnants of serenity
and angelic peace from that snowy place so high above.
Each flake falls so quietly clinging to the one that went before,
as does the next and next until one branch alone may carry
a four-inch-high load of snow resembling a garland made of white
chrysanthemums balancing on the thinnest arms. In all directions
snow-covered trees, good trees that deserve this luxury of winter.
And although I wish I could die here now right this minute in the midst
of heaven’s brilliant bridal shower, its falling confetti, I know it will be
a death withheld. My home is not among these mountains. My destiny
is in a town among trees who would be shocked to see snow fall; my trees
are naive, suburban, they distrust the wild upheaval of winter, they distrust
the white hypnosis of snow, are devoted to winter being green with hollow
clouds. They will never release me, never let me live in this light.