Except that they seem to fall from sky-places to the right and left,
the snow storm at midday is a fine, sprinkly dusting, as from a flour sifter;
light, floaty particles accumulating in drifts on their destination.
I'd see the landing places if I were hovering over a mixing bowl,
but from my chair, I only capture the downward flight.
In the morning, the start of this wintry mix sent huge flaky splats
against my windshield, careening horizontally, it seemed.
Blue, no, white, silver, gray, intricate occurances spun of frost
by the Great Mathematician...I wondered: might some parts melt
before others so that the sacred geometry of the perfect flake is lost
even before it hits my car?
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