SNOW FALLS slowly in memory. It is tentativeness given form and temperature, seeming again and again to hesitate, not knowing what lies below, whether the surface will be slippery or smooth, level or steep, a hillside, a field of purple clover, an open mouth. The snowflakes fall and lift, then fall again, the first ones melting as they touch the ground. Those that follow retain their shapes, remain as they were when they feathered the sky. One by one they accumulate, form a density of stars, a thousand nameless constellations, none of them bruising or breaking, not a word, not a sigh. Their whole purpose is to fall, to settle down. A parking lot, a birch grove, a woman’s hair. No thought can stop the snow, no panegyric or lament. Even if you’re sleeping, you know the sky is white with down. To the world outside your window, it brings a riddled hush, a new religion, everything has been touched but touched softly, without hands.