I step into the night
and something wet
and cold
is falling.
I’m not sure
if it’s snow
or sleet,
so I reach down
and gather half-a-handful.
For a moment,
it’s as if I have stepped into
some kind of acute awareness.
The fluff in my hand is so light,
I can’t feel it,
except for the cold.
Yet tiny squares
of translucent white
I know I can’t look long;
it will soon be gone.

But then,
this morning,
in the cold,
there it is.
I step out again,
gather the fluff—
now sparkling in the sunlight—
let my hand grow cold and red,
and stand frozen in amazement
at our very existence.