Backward Simile in Snow

It is snowing,
But white is not clear, or even always bright.
The flakes die on contact with the November turf
Like whitewashed concealments of warnings,
Statements of distraction of salesmen:
Products with names that catch and stick.

The pines with their
Crystalline coated needles erect,
Pointing and laughing at the sky
For it's child-like attempt at intrusion,
Reminiscent of dusty sheets of lies
Masquerading as oxymoronic organizations
Draped over failure.

Droplets now pelt the patches of surviving flakes,
Jealously, as the young look to athletes,
Actors in hero roles and
School-yard bullies,
Only to discover the charade later,
Retaliating with stones and sharp objects
Across conference tables,
In dingy barroom caucus,
In embarrassing broadcast interviews.

Stubbornly, the sky reasserts it's omnipotence
Forcing accumulation with sheer volume
As smog in the LA. valley
Or as a soilent-green plastic membrane
Suffocating all but it's own image
Pulled and tucked,
Leads slowly into cataclysmic winter.