The Craft Of Paper Snowflakes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I share my lunch with Alma:
I follow her, and finally sit down with her anywhere:
Sometimes she says she loves me,
And sometimes she isn’t sure, but her beauty reminds me
And gives me hope for a peaceable tomorrow,
As the traffic all filibusters,
The ceiling fans pirouette, the day languishing like a lost
Ship filled to the teeth with sparkling jewelry
Which calls down the gaudy angels who flit around her
Like hummingbirds at a confection of water fountains,
Like toy soldiers out in a tomboys yard
That the cicadas are humming:
Pillared by the slash pines, as if in a feral dynasty that sweats
The naked humidity, and in December knows the craft of
Paper snowflakes across the wounds
That were never delivered in the first place.