Procession
Snowflakes hailing down in throngs,
In steady pilgrimage they meet the ground.
They coat it, kiss it with cold lips,
Beg it forgiveness for their wrongs.
Then, bowed, they enter it like a church.
They are silent- always, and after.
The one becomes many, and these become crowd:
The doors soon pack and flakes soon pile.
Their shapes-like blooming lattice flowers- locked,
Though in their beauty no particle’s proud.
And as others together keep warmth,
So these keep their life-giving cold.
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