We take photographs of snow falling,
but all we capture is the aura of feelings,
abstract and ill-defined, the sensations of snow,
of falling, of tumbling and dreaming, obscurely.
We glimpse childhood in fragments, gleaming,
a memory of you standing in the doorway, glances,
leaving, coat on, bags packed and ready for denial.
The falling snow can’t hide that look on your face,
joy of departure, pleasure of dancing snow angels,
a sense of delight, betrayal in the smear of ash.
A blanket of perfect white before the stains came,
a perfect life, marked, patented and forgotten,
just photographs of snow falling, trying to capture
obscure beauty, ephemeral and all too fleeting.
