The Snowflake
The Snowflake
Sit quietly
And pretend
There's a roaring fire
In the fireplace
The snow
Silently builds
Against the north side
Of the house.
Smell
The smoke?
Listen
To the wind howl?
And maybe
In the cold night
Hear a barn door
Banging away?
But we're wrapped
In our feather filed
Quilt q
Quite snug...
My feet
Cold from taking
Off my boots
Then walking barefoot
Across
The bare wood floor.
My big ears
Tingle as they warm.
A cricket
Brought in
With the
Armful of
Seasoned oak
Warmed by the fire
Begins,
To sing...
Crick-et, crick-et, crick-et.
Frost had his
Road not taken,
Alluding to how
Being different
Is the now.
For me
The last line
Says...
An insignificant
Choice
Makes all the
Difference,
There is no going back.
Fpr Lillian Hillman
Walking through
The deep snow
to the
Train Station.
There is
No Train
And looking about
There is
No Station.
Lost in a Winter
That
Has no end,
A creative
But disturbed woman.
The heat rises
From the iron cookstove
A curl
Of escaped smoke
Finds passage
Through the beaded
Ceiling
Into the cold attic.
There on warming
Cedar shingles
Of the roof
A snowflake falls.
Absorbing
Heat
It becomes a droplet
Of Water
And begins its j
Jouirney
To the sea.
But wait,
It cools
And upon reaching
The roof’s edge.
Pauses
Then joins others
In its descent
As sheep
Crowding to escape
Over an unseen
Barrier.
Gives up its
Latent heat
And becomes
A part of...
Morning and
In the clear air
The icicle
Among others
Sparkles
In the Sun
Dangles
From the roof’s
Edge.
Snap one off
And taste the cold
With just a hint
Of the cedar
That gave it birth.
Memories
Are forever.
A bit of mind’s cosmos
To be shared.
Copyright © Joe Wortham | Year Posted 2017
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