Silver Drifting

Small white turrets of rings,
Silver drifting.
Trapped under a smooth cold dome,
Drifting slowly through still water,
Down, like rain falling past grey clouds, past flashes of light, falling until it collides with the hard ground far below,
Silver drifting.
Past white domes, many shapes morphed together,
One side small, tiny, petite, minute,
The other large, infinite, vast, spacious.
A single dome holds it together, stops its escape to the unknown,
Silver drifting.
Cool as glass on a frosty morning, icicles dripping from the windowsill piercing the blanket of snow far below,
Smooth as a slippery rock in the middle of a bubbling stream, blanketed in soft, shamrock moss,
Silver drifting.