The Kinetic Energy of Snow

Not so rare as the meteor that flashed
its tufted wings over Russia three days

before you were born, its little blazing tail
hooked right into me—not so rare as the first steps,

which only happen once, arms sprawled to meet mine,
closing the hollowed gap, your tongue

rung raw from teeth that streak across
my nipples, the snack of little pearls, of blush —

not so stunning as the breath of you, the huff
of your parted lips, our napping bodies close,

then rolling away. The sun is muddied behind endless cirrus,
and across our prairie flit snow rollers—delicate ice tumbleweeds,

lolling like bales, embryos clipping away. Birthed
of constant gusts, snail-curl, inaugural rose. The snowflake,

made up of ice crystals and swung space, clotting your lashes,
burning away as you sleep. The way our sheets crest

and furl around your torso, your yawn from waking,
your mewling and bright dapple.