Winter Snow

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.

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.

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