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by Mary Lambert
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
winged swan's-breath.

Shy snow turns to its rounded wing
and melts into breath like
sweet cherries.

Softly, softly...gone.

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