as elusive
as a parchment-torn
snow flake
fluttering to the ground,
the sky far out of reach
and the sun far gone in
its dying grace.

the heart wonders,
will the landing be light,
is it cold and whimsical
against thirsting skin?
the mind wanders,
each thought-step dissecting
a minuscule invader
and its devastating presence

a white-beauty too fragile to keep.

this bared grandeur,
a winter voice unable to
find its own song in the wind.
as it melts, it is pure
and the heart feels and feeds
from its tiny pools.
the tongue is blue
like the derelicts of winter

it must die to be (re)born again.