The Human Snowflake

With winter comes the death for which its cold is known,
But joining it are fragile beings of its own,
Containing each a pattern found it in alone.
Could such perfection ever on its own arise?
Or must the detailed harmony that each supplies
Be fashioned by a master craftsman in the skies?

But no such craftsman can be found within their storm,
For only simple laws to which its clouds conform
Are seen to cut the facets of their product’s form.
In place of architect is found this sightless force
That every peerless pattern follows in its course,
With nothing but the laws of nature as its source.

And what of this complexity?  Is not it found
That chaos cannot generate a form so sound?
And in the squall where ragged wind and cloud abound,
Is not the ruling power one of anarchy?
Would not a perfect product of such forces be
In violation to the law of entropy?

Within the tempest’s hidden world of physic laws,
An order that exists in freezes and in thaws
Is sacrificed to cause what seems without a cause.
As with the sun, where tiny in the flaming void
Identities are broken, and their loss employed,
Such order can be found within a way destroyed.

To see that from decay must every beauty grow,
That all the purest lilies must have graves below,
Brings certain dark enlightenment, if one must know.
If so it is, what solace would we ever find?
From beauty brought about by no designer’s mind,
But in its place a rotting void that lies behind?

About the source of beauty, nothing can be said.
A thing cannot, when taken from an order dead,
By wishing be produced by something else instead.
But laws of nature show a glory all their own,
With order sprung from sources seen by them alone.
What governor it is, or if, is never known.