Dave Bonta starts with a quiet observation: snow keeps falling even after it lands, only more slowly. It's a small, surprising way to think about melting or settling, as if the motion never really ends.
Then the poem jumps to something that seems unrelated, a talk-show host who mocked the idea of a daytime moon. The link is the moon itself. Like snow that goes on falling, the moon is there whether or not someone believes in it, and the host's scorn looks foolish next to something so plainly true.
The speaker's feeling is a bit of gleeful satisfaction. "Relished" is the key word: he enjoyed watching the show slowly fall apart, even with all its famous guests. The word "slow" returns, tying the collapse to the snow's gentle descent. The mood is wry and light, with a small streak of pleasure at someone else's comeuppance.