I sit and watch
Big, paper-white puffs of lace
Falling, falling, falling,
Carried on a wind
That weaves them
Like strangers finding their way
On a busy street.
If they had eyes
Would they see each other?
Each snowflake
So unique,
So fragile.
Temperature rises?
Gone.
Rain in the mix?
Changed.
Our world is fragile.
Change is the only constant.
I watch the snow fall,
Hurried by the wind,
Drifting when not driven,
Flakes bumping into each other,
Dancing, bobbing,
Diving for the ground.
A blanket of white,
As the green beneath sleeps,
Dreaming of raindrops and sunshine.
Cold blanket
Falling from the sky.
No threads to weave,
But a pointillist's delight,
Freckling the landscape,
Slowly blending
Earth and Grass,
Tree and shrub,
Into a white expanse of softness.
Stark are the few objects
That refuse to succumb
To the White mantle of oneness.
In their starkness,
Beauty.
In their resistance,
A reminder.
Lovely garden ornaments
Now symbols of independence.
Winter has come.
The Rose stands banked with snow.
Cold, wilted leaves flutter in the wind.
The feather-light bombardment
Drives the life force deep,
Hunkered down beneath the weight of winter,
Harbored in the roots, the earth, the ground.
Winter has come.
Life takes pause,
And waits on the promise of change.
What lessons lie in this blanket of white?
What insight can this season provide?
Are we like snowflakes?
What forces do we drive underground?
What elements live in dark places,
Waiting on the promise of seasonal change?
What patterns of ebb and flow are we the cause of?
Am I a snowflake?
Am I a garden ornament?
