Snow

It's cold, and I don't belong here. Around me everyone is laid out. None resemble me, and I am a stranger In this whitewashed world. The wind picks up and so do I. Energized to skip through the crowd. At last, a few others rise to the occasion And we make a game drifting about. We settle, stacked high Trees forming an unwelcoming winter wall Characterized by peeling paint and uneven pickets. Menacing in its countenance. As the others begin to settle and rest I notice a change in the scene. Imperfections have been primed By our frigid fineness; peace restored. I am a tiny speck of white. Alone, I can hardly be seen; Certainly not appreciated or useful. You would not hear me if I called. But when I come together With brothers and sisters, connected or not; The landscape not only changes, But gets a fresh start.