Lucretius knew:
Open the casket
And you’ll find it full
Of swirling snow.
Now and then two flakes
Will meet and merge,
Or else one will turn gracefully away
In its bit of death.
From where comes this brightening
In a few words
When one is merely night,
The other, dream?
From where comes this pair
Of walking, laughing shadows,
One of them all muffled
In red wool?
