but also magical.
There is magic in
the mathematically
perfect flakes
that fall after
the still chill,
soft as down,
hard as frost,
a contradiction.
As I watch them
in the twilight
this July evening
a couple of flakes
swirl hither and
thither, aimless,
unaffected by
gravity and their
own will
apparently.
They will land
wherever chance
dictates, and
then they will
melt and vanish,
and I wish that
my life was
similar
There would be
some comfort
in that.
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