Howard Nemerov (29 February 1920 – 5 July 1991 / New York City, New York)
Because You Asked About The Line Between Prose And Poetry
Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.