Snowflakes

Do you like the tink

of the sink

in the blistering burns

of winter's storm?

Or is it the dancing flakes,

on the plates,

eating galore,

when sad is mad?

The melted floe,

starting to go,

on the road,

it sways away. 

You play, play, play,

and won't go away,

you are dragged,

but you still won't go.