and a partridge in a pear tree (in a blizzard)

A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, enters your room

and drifts to the arm of the chair where you, looking up

from your book, see it the moment it lands. That's all

there is to it: no more than a lifting and falling away of attention, a time between times, a flowerless funeral; no more than that,

except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,

which turns into nothing before your eyes, would come back, that someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say:

"It's time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening."

 

--remembering Mark Strand

 

Merry Christmas, Flickr friends

Done