And on the ground this year the snow again
soft as past smudge under foot, brittle bone
black distilled white, cold's crystalline pain
flurries down light flues, turning all to stone,
improbable messengers of the distant stars
dance, unique as love and life, against all odds.
Gravity does for them in streets, parks, cars—
who wear the crew cuts of Easter Island gods
staring poker face at excruciating risk,
as we nudge lives aloft like hi five balloons,
avalanche or flake, smothered or kissed;
sceptical of hot hell as eucharist moons,
and the sun that will melt all, even the last in-tray—
what else can we do? Stretch - touch gently, play.