Overnight, it’s pow! The held note
keeps falling. And only seems
slow. Because it’s just 
frozen rain, what’s the big deal? the checker
in Stop and Shop told me.
                                           Save warmth
like stamps. The fade of their color
in the 1920s.  Airmail.  The pilot with his 
skin-tight goggle helmet on his 
miniature head could be 
snow-blind.
                           All heads are small. Mine’s
lost as a thimble 
in this weather. Where 
a finger should be and be 
sewing, every thought 
I ever thunk. 
                               Just this word
thunk. Never used. 
It lands, noisy
metal in a bucket. That’s
the last of it.  No echo
for miles of this
                              snowfall—as in 
grace, fallen from,
as in a great height, released
from its promise.