Semaphores

Tiny snow falling
Straight from the foggy sky;
Buildings loom,
Tops lost in the lowering clouds.
The flakes, like
Mysterious messages,
Whisper down, dissolving with a
Sigh, into the damp, cold ground.

In the dark November morning,
Late maples shine golden,
Beacons of some ancient
Alert: mysterious messages,
Leaves whisper down, piling in heaps
Unread, to be shredded by the diligent worms.

In sharp, cold nights,
Frost clear stars twinkle,
Flashing their mysterious messages
Across time and space
Nobody here knows how to read
The code.