The Storm

Sky begins its slow ascent
to meet the earth
and hangs a moist expectancy
over barely perceived thought
and soon the world is whitely wombed
things moving in muffed silence.

It's happened before
and will happen again
but only in dreams 
of glittering ice-ages
of dim memory wanly recalled.

A stillness encompasses
like webbed flour
tasteless and crystallized
promising neverland to children
and bringing childhood
to unbelievers.

Yet death moves also
on padded puffs
in such soft tenderness
calling ready and unready alike
through the crystalline softness
of the pristine close.

The storm is come
It's gone.