From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed. That's all
There was to it. No more than a solemn waking
To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly,
A time between times, a flowerless funeral.
No more than that
Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,
Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back,
That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say:
"It's time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening."
Grail's comment : Saw this ... had to share it ...
I guess this is really a poem about the transience of our lives ... as God says "As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a of the flower of the field for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more."
Sometimes it seems to me that this is all our/my life is ... "a flowerless funeral"; a waiting for something to happen; a slow, grinding endurance race run in weighted shoes, the pace of the race run with that dragging slowness only truly felt, and feared, in nightmares while pursued by the wolves of the night ... and so we/I wait. We/I wait for Christ's return, yes, but also for "life" to happen, for some cosmic light bulb to be switched on in the dark room of existance, a beam of sunlight to shine through the dust clouded pane of glass in the window of my/our life and, I dunno, something to happen.