How I Long to Hold a Snowflake
Snowflakes flutter to frosted earth
On a perfect winter day.
They glide through frigid wind,
Refracting whatever threads of light
Peek through the sky's soft gray quilt.
I stand on snow-crusted ground,
Craving my neck in awe
Of the chandelier of quartz drifting down.
My boots leave indents in an ever-growing cushion.
I want to let one settle on my hand.
So I can run my fingernail across
One of its many crystalline branches.
So I may feel just how smooth
A rigid structure could ever be.
So I will know that something as grand
As the smoky giants that sleep
Lazily above the horizon
Can craft something as intricate as it.
But I worry that the heat from my hands
Will melt and do away its delicate form.
If I were to tap it, even with the
Weakest edge of my nail,
I fear I would cleave it,
Between the roots of its symmetrical beauty,
In two.
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