The Purest Form of White

Soft snowfall

On an oblivious world

The crust sighs

And the blades of grass shiver

In their new icy coats.

The ground sleeps

Eyes frozen shut

With snow filling wounds

And blurring imperfections

Of our artificial wilderness

In flattering alabaster.

As the flakes gather,

Cushioning sounds and

Advocating silence,

There fills a being

An unrecognized urge

To hold tongues

And leave thoughts

Pleasantly unspoken.

Trees don their cold heavy cloaks

The planet gladly exchanges

Accessories of

More vibrant life

For an easy, restful color

That’s always in style

Come winter.

With a dormant wardrobe

Boasting few accessories

Just the elegant shine of frozen water

And the stark

Bold pattern

Of bare branches

Framing the evening sky

Nature cozies up to sleep.

Though icicles will stay in style

For millennia

I can only suggest

That they don’t

Leave so soon.

Spring always comes too early.

Thank goodness

It’s not


The End

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