Snowfall In G Minor Poem by Marianne Boruch

Overnight, it's pow! The held note
keeps falling. And only seems
slow. Because it's just
frozen rain, what's the big deal? the checker
in Stop and Shop told me.
Save warmth
like stamps. The fade of their color
in the 1920s. Airmail. The pilot with his
skin-tight goggle helmet on his
miniature head could be
snow-blind.
All heads are small. Mine's
lost as a thimble
in this weather. Where
a finger should be and be
sewing, every thought
I ever thunk.
Just this word
thunk. Never used.
It lands, noisy
metal in a bucket. That's
the last of it. No echo
for miles of this
snowfall—as in
grace, fallen from,
as in a great height, released
from its promise.