This beauty deserves only
the soft and fragile
clinking of wind chimes,
and the crinkle
of wrapping paper.

No words are delicate
enough to sustain it,
no images are cold enough
to keep it from melting.

Falling and falling,
soft feathers a centimeter wide,
but no bird could be that
intricately patterned.

Angel tears, perhaps,
that drifted so lazily through
the atmosphere, they were
admonished ‘til
their hands turned blue,
and their lips formed an O
without uttering as much as a
purr.

But whatever the reason,
the reside on earth now,
and they will be safe
here
for a millisecond at least,
before our lack of
an ozone layer
betrays their trust
and flips a switch to
call them back to water.