Watching snow |
in its gentle, curving fall,
I see each flake slanting and turning
at the same inimitable time,
like Sufi dancers.
Finally, I understand the silence
with which most people
live their lives.
Not like snow--pure, obedient
snow--as it falls to its death--
but like shrapnel and scalding metal,
piercing and sarcastic,
like screaming vultures.
Snow treads air to its graceful demise.
Like a ballerina fluttering her last
Shy snow turns to its rounded wing
and melts into breath like