the snow falls slower than my heart beats,
I descend in irregular swirls,
buoyant, at first light aloft

I am yet to be alit 
still in search of ground

without regard for the frigid air,
for no matter the temperature
I fail to accumulate

instead I melt 
on eyelashes 
run down cheeks

without regard for the whisperer,
her lips and her eyes only partially close
and so she lisps
as she edges away

to exit
silently

whistling
she circles mid-air
like stars or like snow
as if wind were gravity

cc: Chagall 2021