Isn't there enough beauty?
On a winter afternoon
you shook the first heavy snow
off the weighted branches
of Christmas pines
creating concave mini domes
round grey shadows
in the earthbound inches of white.
Aren't there enough perfect moments to last a life time?
The sun was a dime fading convex
beneath the cover of storm droplets condensed
inverted dirty snow spread skywards
back to its origins.
The glistening flakes glued themselves
to you hair as you fell backwards
carving out your images, angel wings spread.
Hadn't we reached the limit of happiness?
Excavating furrows, rounding out
diamond finds into perfect spheres
melted where warm hands compacted,
built, curved, projected icy missiles.
It couldn't get any better.
Impressed on my arm,
your melting fingers,
pulling me into adventure:
``There's no fun like snow fun,'' insistent.
Other images have fallen out of mind, drifted,
but I remember you flying flat
angel on cold white snow
and it appears crisply, smacks me stinging,
like a youthful snowball, bittersweet.
