The writer sat at his desk, looking at the snow.

“Ah,” he said, “I think the snow must be a blanket of truth, or a cloud of singular miracles. Am I right?”

“No,” said the poet, “not even close.”

The writer frowned. “Then I think it must be a martyr, dying in the mire of sidewalks, or a fallen woman once white and pure. Am I close now?”

“No,” said the poet. “Try again.”

The writer thought for a long time. His greatest idea came to him.

“Snow is God’s tears,” he cried, “frozen by the coldness of man.”

“Now you are close,” said the poet. “Snow is crystals of ice formed from the vapor of water in the air.”