Man is a snow that cracks
the trees’ red resinous arches
and winters the cabined heart
till the chilled nail shrinks in the wall
and pistols the brittle air
till frost like ferns of the world that is lost
unfurls on the darkening window.
(from "Man is a Snow, Earle Birney)
I'm in Florida at the moment, having left on the threshold of a snowstorm that never materialized. It's a very strange Winter this year in Ontario, with hardly any snow and many, many mild days. I love snow, but this has been exceedingly convenient for a city dweller having to move about without a transit pass.
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