Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
— Howard Nemerov
(via toadustyshelfweaspire)
The Floating Library 
Robert Frost said it well, poetry without rhyme is like playing tennis with the net down.