What I took for snow was only throws of Boughs from messy cottonwoods, whose Disembodied capillary carapace endows Street tops with flimsy drifts, summer's balmy Frock to budded creepers, blessing fresh Blackberry paths in frosted robes, Thin-stitched to flower seeds.
Now its clear what ripened here last fall; When I had touched white edges where Your rudiments fell down, why my fingers Missed the requisites of numb and sting: These cloud-child floating things Hold none of that.
Only an attic fool dissects apology, Snarls genesis with failure, Mistakes blossoming for blizzard.
~CRH July 2012 Note: Feel free to share my work but please use my name if you do