It was snowing nurses.

The blonde ones

From ICU.

They wore those perky

Little nurse hats,

White coats.

They wore surgical

Masks and carried

IV needles

And bags of morphine.

They had sponges

In their pockets.

They landed gently

On the lawn,

And looked around,

Not knowing

What to do.

 

It was snowing

Polar bears,

Who loved us for

Our temporary mercy.

They landed gently

On the lawn,

On all fours,

But then stood

On their hind legs

And sniffed all around,

Confused.

 

It was snowing sawdust

From the Amish coffin shop.

 

It was snowing shuttlecocks

That looked like pastries,

Or tiny volcanoes.

At least they looked at home

Lying on the grass.

 

It was snowing pastries.

It was snowing swaddled babies.

They landed gently.

It was snowing wan

Corpses in dress whites

That had started out

As babies with zero

Knowledge of pastries,

Or shuttlecocks,

Or sawdust,

Or polar bears,

And had (fate

Being fatal) of nurses,

Now, no knowledge

Nor need.

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