when it snows in the South
(which is seldom)
I bundle up and go
outdoors and stare
skyward at the pale grey
clouds becoming
crystals floating down as
haphazardly
they resist moist landing
on outstretched tongue.
Invariably, one
stands out from the pack and
I follow it.
Once successful,
I stop shuffling about in small circles and
savor the ice pinch of precipitated grace.