It falls so easily, each flake
an individual, so many, so often.

It is beautiful. Everything it covers becomes
beautiful. If you live with winter you cannot wait
to share it with those who have never seen snow.

It is impossible to describe, the fear, the beauty.
Truth laid as bare as you could ask and it is
not white — it is blank and conceals all.

Purity is cold; snow is warmth.
You can live in a house of snow.

The stitch of streetlamps, cars, dim filtered sun
create webs of brilliance within each flake.
You can hold out your hand and catch rainbows,

stick out your tongue and taste them,
roll them up into snowmen that will blaze with the
light of a million miniature stars.

Winter winds may blow but they cannot deflect us;
life is snow, repetition does not perfect us.

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