First Flakes

First Flakes

 

On that evening, those first flakes fell.

Fingers formed frost. Perhaps she bites,

chews it over or swallows it whole.

On that evening, those first drops on skin.

Fragile. Faint felt. Soft, he hardly notices,

washes all over or brushes it off.

On that evening, those first snows fleck.

Blood orange burnt. Smelts his thin coat,

zips it tighter or disrobes cast-offs.

On that evening, her lake first thickened.

Storm sands swirled. Maybe she settles

slim in her slumbers or broad in rage.

Come this morning, first frozen shave.

Buttered razor beneath chin and lip,

all slippery ice and drifting grip,

falling fluid drips. Possibly it congeals,

forms forward trails or backwards wake

to that evening where fell first flakes.