The Midsummer Snow

Since midsummer has past I feel inverted.
I get to thinking of winter,
And a flit of the darkest day slips in in a split,
Because just after a split sight of the first fall I cannot but see slices of splintery icing from the broken skies that,
As a mask: like moss on a rock or tone on all talk,
Resheet our ambered Alaskan premises,
I wrote these, where, once upon a memory:

Moss, well at least his character in real time, mentioned something some way which struck a tune, a tune to my liking.
Although I don't think this is applicable for the play (well, not yet) is because it bodes well for this occasion.
Moss, well at least that's how I'll refer to him from here on out, and I were having an ordinary post-working hours conversation in the confines of this slightly foggy room we've been using to cut off completely and clear our heads.
Then he said, seeing was it had started to snow;
"I really don't mind walking home in these conditions," as he had just prior come back from the Blue Fox Bar, "because the world moves in slow motion."
I understood and asked him what he thought about walking in the rain.
He was humored and said, with amity, "That's why I'm glad you're here man. No one else gets that stuff."
I'm not so sure about that, but then again I doubt he thinks that so solidly.
Nevertheless, that was a good talk, a good thought, and a memorable moment.