When the wind blows the sugarsnow is lifted off the branches and it

falls

shining down through the clear winter sun all sparklebright and it

settles
slowly onto
the fat roadside
piles and the hushed
creek still whispering
its watersong into the quiet of this winterworn world where we are all

waiting

for the quickening to come to lift us to reach those soft hands into our

bodies. Those perfect, aching hands.