July 8, 2008
Frozen flakes,
Bright under the softly flickering street lights,
Dance and twirl down from above,
Nature’s quiet ballet.

Looks like God spilled a bucket of white paint,
The sky a never-ending stretch of nothing,
Perfect, pure, and untouched,
Not stained by the worries of the world.

Icy hands stuffed in the pockets of my sweater,
I stroll down the gently lit street,
For once without a care,
Content to watch my little blessings fall.

Not a sound is heard in this wonderland,
And in that lies my message.

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