Lines Written on an Inn Window in a Time of Very Deep Snow

It was the kind of miracle
A storyteller likes—
Not picked as the most marvelous,
Just narrative device.

This was a miracle of snow
That never stopped falling,
Kept continually growing,
But never turned to ice.

It started on an afternoon.
When winter sun was low.
The early flakes were pillow lace.
Later, they glowed like milk.

Next morning it was shoulder deep,
And that’s when it turned strange.
There was no end. There weren’t results.
The storm refused to change.

It wasn’t another Ice Age,
Just a state to be in,
In which it was always snowing,
Surrounding Snow Fall Inn.