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Running in a Snowstorm (February 2014)

I went running in a snowstorm for the first time this morning.
It started out as mere flurries, decoration for my visual field,
and escalated over the course of an hour, blanketing all surfaces,
filling the sky with slowly falling cottony puffs,
 
descending, a pale gray, each subtle against the backdrop
of a sky flat white from horizon to horizon
before suddenly emerging, swirling constellations
highlighted against the bark of each tree,
 
before, finally, descending through the middle phase
and finding its resting place on the ground.
It strikes me as more than a little absurd
that I'm even out in the park to witness this
 
protected by four layers of thin, unnaturally warm, fabric,
the assurance of shelter once I find my way home,
warm water waiting once I wander back inside.
The promise of a day beckons unburdened 
 
by the need to deal with what I'm observing now,
though the escalating inundation leaves snow
in my mouth, on my nose, trapped in my eyelashes.
Approaching the glass door of my building, I resemble Santa Claus
 
and realize that I should've brought windshield wipers for my glasses,
a device to keep time, perhaps, separate from a gadget too fancy to bring on a run.
The snow that finds the Earth sticks, in expanding white patches,
its counterparts on the asphalt, atomized, fade quickly.
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