Born of the coldest air, drifting, down from the highest sky, loosened from the pregnant masses above the fields brown and bare, over the forest stunned, tumbles the snow; soft, silent, and slow.
Drifting, making their way into protective bosoms, accepted by the leaves of heavily burdened trees. Snowflakes, each different, formed from the imaginations of those who watch them fall, suddenly shaped by our opaque desires into divine manifestations.
Birds flitter amid the leaves of dying trees striving to warm their beaks beneath tattered wings and creatures large and small take shelter wherever they may to await a brighter and warmer day.
Yet the anxious spirit doth take reprieve in the troubled pale manifestation the heavens reveal.
The sorrow the earth feels.
This is the mystery of despair, a fortnight in its pale birth gathered, murmured and exposed to forest and field.
T’was I who stood arms stretched wide, tongue extended, catching individual snowflakes; enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, humanly aware in every nuance of the word.
28th Dec, 2010 © Susan Cobb Beck
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