sweeping past my windows as if panicked.
This snow pausing and swirling, lingering
at my writing windows like ghost moths, quick
in observing me then fleeing, their wings
displayed in endless designs. This snow, it
seems, may never cease, rapturing our trees,
lawns, walls and roofs, and too soon deposit
crystal crust on all our windows, decree
our vision a jeweler’s blessing—peerless
reflections from nature’s prisms. This snow
entrancing my view and mood, my fearless
welcome of imagery, my chance to know
all things, soon will warm, melt, blur and quiver
to sacred water, caressed by rivers.
Roger Armbrust
February 9, 2011
