Four Quintillion Blows - edit

[wasellajam]

edit1;


Microscopic hammers falling
make no dent, leave us recalling
carpet-bombing rearranging
landscapes into silent wastes.

Blanketed and suffocated
under white, anticipated,
interlocking ninja spin-stars,
glassy flakes in drifts of tricks.

Like a judo master throwing
his opponent, all this snowing
uses our own speed to smash us
into sidewalks with no mat.

One quintillion satin hammers–
pretty, pratfall coccyx-slammers–
make one inch of peaceful snowfall
bright in sunlight: I’ll stay home.

---

Hearty thanks to both critics.  @wasellajam  pointed to weakness of S.2, which I have attempted remedy with possibly excessive invention.  The revision does at least solve the meter problem of "hours" being read as two syllables in some dialects.

For @milo, I tried when first writing this to do as you suggest (making the third and fourth lines a rhymed couplet) but found I was already forcing it just in the first stanza.  Instead, the missing beat at the end of the fourth line (there's a name for that, isn't there?)  suggests an unexpected discontinuity... such as one's keister impacting the ground after a slip.  Or at least tries to.

Incidentally, we're up to eight quintillion today, where I live.  My birdbath looks like a very large white-frosted coconut cake on a display stand.

Yay for ninja spin-stars, suites the poem. I have a table on my deck that does that, I sit on the couch and watch it rise.