Elizabeth Robinson

On Snow

Things fall

hesitantly,  always

so unsure of their season.


If the conditions

had a melody,

they would be half-aware, humming it over and over:

minor key, then major, then minor.

The world, then, is only a world inside

its own weather,

a diffident

fleck, the tune


worn or melted, eroded into a key

that rhymes indeterminately.


If melody had

a memory,  would

it be white
and so inclusive, discordant, oblivious of

gravity, afraid?


 and therefore a verse to itself:


white carefully rhymes with conditions

of atmosphere


the uneven simile of relation

undoes itself


perfect symmetry.


What is meant to be broken in half

so it may replicate itself—shy and off-key

rhyme—snow’s whole—

undoes itself by falling to

what it hoped was a prior circumstance,