Snow was literally swarming round the streetlamp like gnats.
The closer they came, the larger they grew, snow-gnats, snow-bees,
and in my snood, smoking in the snow, I watched them.
Everyone else was behind the door, I could hear their noise
which made the snow, the swarm, more silent. More welcome.
I could have watched for hours and seen nothing more than specks
against the light interrupting light and away from it, flying blind
but carrying light, specks becoming atoms. They flew too fast
to become snow itself, flying in a random panic, looming close
but disappearing, like flakes on the tongue, at the point of recognition.
They died as they landed, riding on their own melting as poems do
and in the morning there was nothing to be seen of them.
Instead, a streak of lemon, lemon honey, ringed the sky
but the cloud-lid never lifted, the weekend promised a blizzard.
I could have watched for hours and seen nothing more than I do now,
an image, metaphor, but not the blind imperative that drove them.