The steady fall along my wall leads to the end of day.
Frigid flakes coagulated atop the fertile ground of Spring exhibit their intricate glory.
Inside, I make dinner. I’m safe. It’s warm.
Dusk brings warning of a night from which I must hide. Or must I?
The only light is the crisp white of the snow out my front door.
The steady hum of plows is a clockwork announcement of the burden of today.
Do I dream of the melt of it all?
Or do I let myself be numbed by the cold, hypnotic beauty of snow at dusk?
Instead I dream that I am a snow crystal floating in the air, landing with the other crystals on the blanket we make as we go.
1 thought on “Snow at Dusk”
Sent from my iPhone