White Out

The white angels descend straight down

with their feet curled

toes to touch

the whipped cream.

And it seems.

Each one a sound catcher with

their wings as embroidered

doilies buffering heaven

from earth.

And it seems.

They touch down

and interlock into a mass of

communal insignificance

spread out like powdered sugar.

And it seems that

this insulated pane with

its broken seal inhales

the yard like old man

winter smoking his pipe

and the snow piles

up between the pains...

and it seams.