A Piece of the Storm
From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered
your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you,
looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed. That’s all
There was to it. No more than a solemn waking
To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of
attention, swiftly,
A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more
than that
Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,
Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come
back,
That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might
say:
“It’s time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening.”

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