Falling, Fading
By shaun roundy

Unique as any individual,
snowflakes fall in the forest
and make no sound, nothing more
than a crystal tinkling
as they tumble down so gracefully to join
the white pile on bare branches, burying
the death of the Fall,
or melt--
on upturned eyelashes,
cold noses,
or outstretched tongue tips,
always hungry for just one more.

From half a mile away,
an avalanche roars,
crashing and churning
down the mountainside.
All within earshot stop short
to watch and turn a careful ear, hoping
the memory will stay clear
forever.
Its rugged beauty,
the screaming white froth,
silences every other thought--
what else could matter
at a time like this?

Within the slide,
the snow itself is cold and dumb.
It hardly matters
to the snow
where it slides,
flies,
and packs
tight and hard as concrete.
It will not see the purple wildflowers
growing comfortably
at its ever-receding edge,
the muddy line
between death and life,
the life fed
by its own demise.

It hardly matters when
the last brilliant white patch
will pack against a hot, sweating hiker's face and neck
and then melt,
sending cool streams
sliding over scorched skin,
or retreat,
seeping quietly
back
into the dark,
stony,
earth.