The tiny tendrils of new-melting snow
Slip beyond the treetops' reach.
They utter such an incandescent glow
As streetlamps catch them, as if under each
Some novel fire burned; perhaps that's why
They melt before they even touch the ground
As votive offerings unto the sky
Presented by the clouds, in whom they're found.
But we below, the audience to this,
See not the purpose, but the pageant merely,
And though the purpose there we often miss,
We see the beauty in its process clearly.
So we believe it was all made for us,
And call it ignorantly glorious.
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