Snow
This morning I’ve slowed,
like a tourist on a mountain top,
even stopped to consider and think
about what lies before me.
As a child I viewed snow as a plaything—
a white gift to be pushed, packed and rearranged
with mittens, boots and toys.
But today my mind contemplates
a thick blanket of billions,
maybe trillions of crystals
outside my window.
My eye looks at one spot,
a top hat of snow
on the bird bath pedestal,
and I wonder how many crystals are there.
I look up into snow coated tree limbs
at nature’s white frosting,
and watch the breeze blow small clumps into the air,
where they glide to small drifts on the ground.
Scientists advise us that no two crystals are alike
and yet there they are
some like skeletal snowmen, others like jewels.
Created by an unseen hand.
We’ve spent billions of dollars
learning more about galaxies,
but no one can explain the snowflake.
If I pick one up with my fingers it dissolves.
If I touch them the surface is disrupted.
If one lands on my clothing it soon disappears.
Yesterday I shoveled snow and complained.
Today I’ll stay indoors and view it with admiration.
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