Snowstorm

Life is not a river swum,
beginning to end,
but a snowstorm.
Crystalline moments catch
in the mind’s eye, melting,
spreading over the lens.
Sensations form
a kind of adhesion,
without context.
The bright-eyed face,
an abrasive woolen sweater
and hot cocoa searing the tongue:
Snowflakes.   Bright, singular,
they form drifts, yes
but a story?
Is this fat prism
climax,
already melting?
In the blizzard,
is anything resolved?