NIGHTSNOW

It snowed on my imagination during the night;
about two inches – it stuck --
the light, afterthought snow that accumulates slowly,
falling from an uncommitted sky,
unconsciously, like eyes dampening with old sorrow,
or the very fine mist that nevertheless soaks you through.
I turned my head and glimpsed without seeing
being falsely reassured by the white outside.
Snow, I feel, brings purification by cold,
bears in its arms icy distilled water which splashes
the sleeping seed into gasping wakefulness
and starts all the flourish of spring.
When I looked carefully the paths were still black
the earth grudging only patches to my sight
through snow no longer white, but dirty
and decaying; the little green exhausted,
convalescing in winter's debris.
My nightsnow disappeared with a pop
like those dreams.