The snow tonight floats in a slow tempo

as if the flakes are avoiding the ground.

They tumble with such grace,

suspended and lovely,

perhaps they are putting on a show.

For whom?  Who choreographed it?  Will anyone applaud?

Or maybe the freedom and movement

bring so much delight

they are trying to stretch the experience

as long as possible.

How do they slow down?  What else brings them delight?

Perhaps the sky holds them back,

reluctant to surrender them to the earth,

fearing the lonely ache

left in their absence.

Do they say goodbye?  How does the sky grieve?