After days of gentle blue overhead,
punctuational clouds dashing
and comma-ing the sky, some
trees suddenly donning their
pink tutus, others ready for tea
in saucer magnolia cups,

we prepare for what may be
winter’s last blast—more rain,
more snow, we hear, drenching
us from mountains to valley
a couple of hours below the peaks
on the horizon groaning under
all that white.

If we are looking for inspiration,
we have only to look up.

We learn a new word, thanks
to the new owner of our
favorite neighborhood Mexican
place who, delivering burrito
and tacos to our table, tells us
about catching tiny white flakes.

Hail? I ask since snowfall on
the flatland is rare as rubies.

No, softer, he says, holding out
his hand, as if he’s managed to
hang onto a tiny bit of origami ice,
sky poetry written on his palm.

Later we learn that he held graupel,
a word weather folks know—
snow falling through a cloud,
soft, oblong crystals that can
resemble snowflakes, so fragile they
quickly crumble and disappear—

temporary bits of snow crystals
that once in a while make it to earth
for us to marvel over on a day when
heavy clouds thick as sweaters
overtake us, a different kind
of sky poem,

as we wait for the marching patter
of tenacious rain feet to come.