I wonder where you are right now. Barrage
of thick flakes and crystals converge from gray
sky, caping yards and streets, ghostly mirage,
like flying mass of tiny angels. Say
it’s how God sent manna, Israelites
singing praise. Say these are white chips of grace
deemed to save us. Were you here, love, your light
surpassing this pale purity, I’d race
outside to your laughter, raise my long arms
to foggy heaven, shout to ice-crusted
trees how we’re all brothers, blessed by these charms
from above. How even Herod trusted
snow carried from Mount Lebanon to cool
wine. How no man could muster such jewels.
Roger Armbrust
February 8, 2010
