Confection

In the dark, the lucid sky sets to work.
Innocent, without a care,
Until the door of day bangs shut.
In the ranges of the room,
The outdoors incubates.
And then the sill is white.
Snow attaches to the screen
Like honey to a comb.
Through the open sill
The sky is washed with snow.
The walls bang with wind,
Branches dump their flour
In the mix, slanting sideways,
The biggest storm in ninety years,
Rising up without a clue, to glaze
The morning’s former blue
In sudden frosting
Sprung from the convection
Of what had been
Another day in spring.