So
fast the small and definite snow left. So many visitors we don’t want or need,
numerous loud souls abound and call. How will we skirt them? Yet the snow, the
little poem itself, precarious on branches and kissing the ground, its leaves,
and the rain tumbled rocks, had to go. Maybe it shall come again. I have to
hope. It wants to come, I think, but is coy for some reason. I remember it
before, the first time last year. I was on the summit of a large hillside and
not only did it arrive but the wind chimed in and brought it across swiftly.
Oh, it was some kind of song without words. I shall have to wait and wait. A
calm but almost quietly desperate plea I shall silently make: White and sky,
please see fit to mix and fall upon the region.
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