Things I Don't Understand 1

In the night, snow
fell in fluffs against the car.
Looking closely, one can almost see
the tangled snowflakes, delicate arms
linked in one soft spell against the glass.
The scraper brush, this morning,
crushes a thousand piled masterworks
at a sweep, blows the fragments
into one last glittering, broken flight.

The children delight in it,
piled at the edge of the lot.
They fall, on purpose, again and again,
until snow clumps against their hats,
scarves, and mittens.  It melts,
like tears, on their warm faces,
and they come to me (whose gloves are yet dry)
to brush it out of their collars.

I do not understand this extravagance.
If it were up to me, I would keep
snowflakes in a box, carefully,
 wrapped like the glass one put away
after every Christmas. 
I would not make them, each
precious, unique, then drop them
from clouds to be pushed into piles
and run into slush.
I cannot grasp this breaking, reshaping,
water-cycle mystery
any more than a snowflake.