I Think It Snows

Flakes as silent satin Sail down salubriously Dissipating into stupefaction Hitherto ramming clay They were the forlorn harbingers Before a cataclysm of sposh Burst through the firmament Like a derailed locomotive Besmirching any implement in ambit The innocuous sniff of sposh Vilifying my cranium As with a burst of gore Revivifying to the hub After an interlude of rhythmic diminution and distend A rapturous ardor of splendor Garnering me into a frosty sphere Of flakes and satin Methinks it snows.