summer and snow

I set fire 
to a poem,
red sparks rise
and roll
into the sky,
cooling
the further they fly
from my hand.

Embers 
tumble awkwardly,
left then right,
no longer my proxy,
like 
passengers
on the night breeze.

Losing
their crispness,
the colour difference
between them
and the stars-
actual balls of fire-
confuses me.

Moments
from pages,
from life,
drift down
like summer snow
and 
I am compelled
to accept 
the ironic
and paradoxical.

I released them
before their 
flame could
consume me.

Yet,
I expect
to feel some 
of their warmth 
as they come
to ground.

And 
when one hand
can easily wipe 
the charcoal smears 
from the other-
all the permanence
that those words
once served,
once held,
is gone.