Suggests bountiful generous, countless forms --- 'The way a crow.
Shook down on me. The dust of snow. From a hemlock tree.
Has given my heart. A change of mood' Robert Frost
sits exhausted in an airport
hoping for a pretty sky;
hearing words from nations’ update,
jumble into purple sky.
Every word intends connection
- hopeful – casting line and fly.
Once outspoken, lost in motion,
kisses in a pretty sky.
Snow
Down it loosens from the sky
along the trees and city blocks,
trampled on by squeaking feet
from 6 o’clock to 6 o’clock.
It gets inside the downfall pipes
and open upward mouths and eyes;
dropping through uncertainties
on certain hats and city types,
whitening our blackened streets,
changing an indifferent world.
The snowman’s little smile is curled
because he knows he’ll never cling
to a billion crazy snowflakes, each,
uniquely shaped - and everything.
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