Snowstorm

She is looking into his eyes
as the flakes fall, her left leg poised
to skate. If I could see her face
I know it would be more intense

than the deep green backdrop of pines
in mandatory rows behind her.
He holds her hands together,
tight, like someone making a pledge.

Not that she needs to be propped up
in that stiff skirt. Unsuitably
dressed or not, what does it matter?

They’re both drowning in this bell jar.
If I shake it again, their glittery
still encounter whirls submerged.