i.

Snow is a bizarre phenomenon,
 what else material is such finite 
 crystal.
A unique beauty, trapped in identical mundane
 destined to be a permanent worthless — 
 trapped in-between the feathers of singers.

An extroversion in between the living and the dead, the skylarks — 
the water self-suffocates in an attempt to embark.

(she holds him close, but not close enough.
but that isn’t why he is no longer there.)

ii.

I sometimes ponder
 the meaning
 of the vain.

But the nourished always
 comes back burnt
 regardless.

iii.

When I first met her
the only thing I knew was that
her skin felt the way love hurt.

Was a silk cottonsong.
 I wish
 so desperately that i could dig up,
 from the rainbow-breath’d
 who, in is temper,
 guarded the dogwood
 
 so tightly — it cracked.

and died.

iv.

They always whispered
 that the better place
 was the one after this.
 whenever we were still crying and hyperventilating.

I wonder where snowflakes go
 after their better half
 passes.