Snowflakes plummet in slow motion slumbers
with such a sombre and solemn descent
which saddens in exponential numbers
until the sky's soft mourning clouds are spent.
The 'drops fall into the freshly dug hole
and occupy where the soil once sat,
covering the body which the skies stole
the snow evens out 'til the earth is flat.
But that dugout will always be hollow,
the earth can never be even again
until another blizzard should follow
and my body is claimed by the rain.
Snow offers a burial holy and right
so let us mourn in an attire of white.
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