Quietly it falls
one tiny, delicate flake of iced lace
fluttering like a windblown leaf,
not falling straight
but twisting, circling, swirling,
till at last it settles and rests,
soon followed by another
and another, and still more,
till in time
the whole yard is filled.
A crunchy white fondant
frosting the confection
that I call home.
