40,000 snowballs a day invade our atmosphere.
Half as big as the Taj-Mahal dome, they melt in our air.
Snowflakes star our eyelashes, ornament our hair with white.
Windshield wipers on an arriving bus scrape snow away.
You touch my hand unexpectedly. I burn and I melt,
like plummeting snowballs showering the world all around.
Snow sprinkles the robe of the Virgin in the fenced churchyard.
I board the damp-smelling bus, watch you through the back window.
The Virgin, covered with white, looks like a bride in the night.
Chimes from the old church fill the air, as the snowballs fill seas.
Do the colors of fish depend on nutrients from space?
Do tidbits of Milky Way make sand-dabs silver and white?
Back to your lamp-lit office, out of the cold snow you sprint.
My second-sight tells me we will be wedded in this church.