Falling Angels

The kissing and soft,
Ticking, touching sounds
Made by wet fall snow

Decorate the road,
And normally dry,
High desert air sighs

With its scents of wet soil,
Rabbitbrush, greasewood,
Juniper, and oaks,

A dirt smell, but clean,
A dirt-branded soap
Hinting greener things.

Falling on bared skin,
It’s almost too mild
To chill. It tickles,

Picks up in a wind,
Flicks blinking eyelids.
Get your own heaven.