Blizzard Constellation or Fireflakes

As I’m marching

in the snowfall

of March, wait–

its April already,

(and the Easter

Bunny has gone

incognito in the

blind solar winds)

a blizzard blows

snowflakes beneath my

eyes, melting on

contact, a part

of me remembers

what physicists say

about stars: colossal,

gaseous balloons, smoldering

fire-flakes in space,

but I dont

buy it, cause

I hear that

space is cold…

the moon is

a frozen snowball,

that God formed

with 10,000 stars;

I  can feel

the constellations starting

to sink deep

into my skin,

dowsing my fiery

heart–I thought

I knew you;

I thought that

stars were frozen

embers, not rising

from flaming tongues

into the night

sky with a crack

but descending upon

an extended tongue

soft and silent,

cold and wet

but still these

crytaline snowflake stars

cannot quench the

thirst, the thist

to know as

I stand on

the rim of

a black hole

while the sleek

black pavement swallows

white flakes whole

for breakfast like

lightning, stars so

close I can

touch these shooting

stars, so brief

so beautiful; so

why leave me,

to brush off

a dozen constellations

into a rainbow

galaxy expanding

slow and eternal

from the rainbow

polluted puddle of

the parking lot,

all alone–staring

at stars falling

at my feet?