Snow

Perhaps this is the way Our world will end: not In biblical flood, or burning Apocalypse, but in deep beauty: Silken white soil, brightened dusk, All softened, houses, roofs, trees: Magical kingdoms, greeting-card worlds Asleep at our world’s window. And this is death, in its deep white beauty: Falling within us, falling forever, Over the heart’s granaries, stored Against hardship, an always future, Unused. So many grains, so many Urgings of love, each alive in Uniqueness, waiting, always Waiting for perfect moments Which smile and are gone. White Crystals will cover us, and the god We stored, against pain and loss: Deep white beauty, absolute.