A child came to me and said, "What is the snow?"
I guess it is the cloak of the wind, rolled about its shoulders,
Or its vector'd lines, full displayed, its fundament trained out over the close-cropped ice-choked waves,
Roaring out over the prairies, an old god mad at the mountains
Or I guess it is the untold quantities of spirits unconfined from their pinheads
rushing and stopping to gaze in my window

Really, it’s hard to do anything except look out at them sometimes.

(cdm | SorryWaltWhitman)