Snowflakes

I stood under so many snowflakes

whirling through the gray air,

when I squinted I could hardly see

the space between them.

They stuck to the threads

of my winter jacket

in crystalline crumbles

before they vanished.

My fingers were bare;

their pink pads lightly gripped

the frozen handle of the door

and shut it safely behind me.

It was unseasonably cold

for late March

that morning I left

knowing I wouldn’t be back

before old winter nights
had waxed and waned,
and waned again.
You can’t rush a poem.