Down from the untoward cloud drifts soft snow,
parachutists stranded. Asphalt shed roofs,
slate roofs out back, dusted with the white stuff,
curious quiddity - winter's need-to-know,
though the ground is no friend. Soaked into rough,
by the late morning there must be no proofs.
Strange incongruence to watch deft flakes dance,
air their only tendering provenance.
Later, it's a raincoat-on-a-chair day,
a rain-bead pearled in cloudlight soak and drip.
A day to run a silence by the birds,
sky clear of silhouette wings' slow drift-stray?
Speak of the divils - they'll leap from your lip!
Sigh for exceptions; settle with few words.
