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.
Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2015
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