Frosted Flakes

Beyond a festive season the reality of each day sets its tone with muted brightness and solid darkness;

Illumined as blotted whooshes of color atop rigid lines.

Looking out at the chill from a multi-story window, there is the reality that it’s a long way down;
For gravity loosely pulls weight as if a hopeless constant.

Is it?

Because there are millions of snowflakes about and many are floating up and higher as if riding some breath that defies gravity;
Perhaps only for a short while.

Where might those flakes land?