Like swirling insects they flurry worried by the wind…
They do not so much fall as fluster,
Those delicate white shapes;
Like swirling insects they flurry
Worried by the wind.
Whey whirl and collide;
Some upwards, some down
Some sideways, some slant;
Tossed by every slightest gasp
Even those thick, heavy specks,
Clusters clinging together,
Rise light as spider’s silk
In the bitter breeze.
They hush the air,
These snowflake moths,
Stifling the laughter, the chatter, the drone,
And through their rush, the world is still
The pale sky ablaze with brilliant silence.
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