Frozen Rain

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Warmth high up

melted the snow as it fell

to freeze on the field

a crystal encasement

of the wreckage of asters

and goldenrod bones

before wind tore the clouds

and the sun burned through

restoring sopping decay

as the way of the world.

But wasn't it gorgeous

for an hour—

the glittering finite intensity

pleasure magnified by brevity?

And we came to understand

with cold rain on our necks

that Stevens was right.

Death is the mother of beauty.

Let us praise it as we pass.