pocket of snow.

we are falling

pockets full of snow,

hands cold as i tuck them in.

and in propinquity, i imagine:

that in all the moments left,

so quiet, with nothing to show,

so motionless, we are snow:

falling, from outreached heights

where all we thought was,

oh, how, like air, we are light.

and like a forest of trees, 

we are too tall to see the 

ground beneath our fallen knees.