The snow–it’s so pure.
So beautiful and simple and elegant,
a testament to a gentle and gorgeous story whose words
lie just beyond the reach of my lips.
I’m left in awe of snow-capped rooftops and
white blankets so thick on the ground
that sidewalks and grass become equal playmates.
It’s so beautiful.
yet . . .
yet it has destroyed power lines,
toppled trees with a mighty shove
and ruined roads whose pants for the
heat waves that used to glide across their surfaces
are suffocated underneath crunchy sheets of ice.
How can something so beautiful be so destructive?
How can something that whitens the landscape
also be so cruel and harsh, darken it with muddy stains?
And that story whose words kiss the surface of my tongue
stirs in my heart, stirs like this blizzard storm.
I think of love, two gloved hands glued together,
walking in this winter wonderland.
Love so pure and beautiful and bright and simple.
But one hand breaks away, like icicles being
knocked from the precipices of ivory gutters,
and suddenly the white snow of love
is the muddy slosh of midday melting.
Their love . . . the heat that kept them warm
was swept away in someone’s cold.
And that one heart left behind, broken . . .
is left to wonder and wander in the beautiful yet destructive winter snow.