Drifting

Snow slips across the cement,
the wind swirling the white dust
in a delicate, yet unknown, direction.

This frozen mist is driven
before my windshield
as I make my way to you.

My eyes twist
with the illusive snow,
and I am lost in the crystal eddies,

the way my fingertips
get lost in the whorl
of hair above your forehead,

while I stare at the freckles
of your sleeping face --
each one pale and soft as the flakes
that drift in steady curls before me.

A. Popp
1995

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