I received this poem from Andy Rudin - as rain hits cold and turns to ice, then warms and washes away the brown slush:
 Snowfall

by Ravi Shankar

Particulate as ash, new year's first snow falls

upon peaked roofs, car hoods, undulant hills,

in imitation of motion that moves the way

static cascades down screens when the cable

zaps out, persistent & granular with a flicker

of legibility that dissipates before it can be

interpolated into any succession of imagery.

One hour stretches sixty minutes into a field

of white flurry: hexagonal lattices of water

molecules that accumulate in drifts too soon

strewn with sand, hewn into browning

mounds by plow blade, left to turn to slush.