I knew my childhood became a single wildflower
grown at the edge of a falling cliff,
when birthdays lost their ability to highlight the year.
It has rained on the last two birthdays,
the ones I have a memory of anyways.
But today it is snowing.
The sky, loyal companion, making the best present she can;
snow crystals glisten in the air like the most expensive diamond,
hard to get a hold of, before they marry the noxious ground,
not even staying for supper,
that’s how they are-
unpredictable, angelic, nobody doubts that,
and never staying, not in the place I live after all.
I try to catch the flow of their falling
as I think “I want to die in the snow.”
What more could a blue poet wish for?
A haunting ending, worth writing prose about.