November snowflakes on a February Morning

It's late in the morning,
And late in the day,
The snowflakes fall,
In silence they play,

They dance now before me,
In the midst of my life,
Then lie there amelting,
In the eve of this strife,

This son or this daughter,
Their journey to earth,
The recycle of water,
On the way to rebirth,

In not-quite blizzard before me,
The ground unchanged,
Save a little damper in absence,
Nothing's remained,

How perfect and short,
This white snowfall is,
The end in the middle,
The never-was kiss.

I turn to the side now,
And look in the book,
The half-thumbed pages,
Of an ageless hook,
The hook of the highlife,
The hook of the hook,
Now hidden in lowlights,
With the peace that it took,

For falling and melting and absorbing can be,
Draining like life on its return to the sea.

I sit here in cold and shiver a little,
At the full life that ended somewhere in the middle,

It was over before it began,
And the snowflakes danced,
And the children ran.