outside my window
snow caught in the tiny streams
like fine fabrics blown
winter's writhing wedding gown
the tight precise arc
the rise and fall
the intricacies of their pattern
paternal to my inability to see
beyond the grains of a tibetan mural
beyond the digits of universal equations
beyond the words of our last three years
longing for the ceiling
to get caught in my eye
longing to seal in the art
with a sigh
am i the wind?
am i powerful and sweeping?
do i create vast patterns with glimpses of beauty
in little pockets so hidden
that only God could appreciate them?
am i the countless blossoming crystals?
am i racing to my resting in a concrete coffin?
a banal burial in the banks
passing without a sound
without an inscape
without a sound