Borne on the wind in a tumble of frost, as worthy of notice as a white speck in a whitening sky, I will glide. I will rest, sometimes, in a white hillblanket, then be tugged up again until, shaking and small, I am drawn by the tug of desire, the inevitability of hope, to your door. To the squat arid shack where you toil, hopeless, dutiful, parched, in your mantle of pain. I will float like the seed of a dandelion, white and small, in through the cracks. Here is where I will rest, again. A snowflake on your palm. Hold me close. I cannot heal you. But I can be the spark, too small to remark upon, which you hold in your closed fist or in an unassuming pendant at your throat. I can be the tiny bead that runs along your skin when you grow so thirsty, so wrung into leathery cords by your work, that even tiny drops delight you. Love, I have no strength to break the shackles at your aching feet. I am smaller than a raindrop. Nothing to anyone but you. I know nothing. I can promise you nothing. But when I close my eyes, I remember that a snowflake, resting lightly just so, begins a slow slide until the mountain in full roars down. The smallest seed can put out green hesitance which widens, grows bark, gives shade. Its roots can wear a boulder into sand. I do not know if I am such a seed. And the world weighs so much. But you are holding out your hand, and I am here, for now. And if you hold me I will hold you, for as long as we can bear the weight of hope, of fearful tenderness, of snow.