Opening his window, leaning out,
He breathes the icy air and scoops the snow,
Spreading it on a black board
To photograph the flakes
Before they fade.
Alone in a Vermont shack
No crystal a copy of any other
No man, either.
After he dies
Jewellers will use his photographs for patterns
And children in school will cut copies
As best they can.
Wilson Alwyn “Snowflake” Bentley (1865 – 1931)
I can’t help thinking how well he loved, this man.
What greater love than to chronicle
The casual works of God?
What higher call
Than the lonely study
Of the beautiful?