>
The white angels descend straight down
with their feet curled
toes to touch
the whipped cream.
And it seems.
Each one a sound catcher with
their wings as embroidered
doilies buffering heaven
from earth.
And it seems.
They touch down
and interlock into a mass of
communal insignificance
spread out like powdered sugar.
And it seems that
this insulated pane with
its broken seal inhales
the yard like old man
winter smoking his pipe
and the snow piles
up between the pains…
and it seams.
Gerald the Writer 
>That is the loveliest description of winter I've ever read!
>:-)
>Love this. Just when I think I've heard all the snow descriptions there could possibly be there is this:this insulated pane withits broken seal inhalesthe yard like old manwinter smoking his pipeand the snow pilesup between the pains…I love that last. So very good. Thanks, Jerry.
>dream winter poetry.Happy Weekend…