Why are storms so beautiful…so meant to be…they forgive no weakness…spare no tree…

Blinding drifting white…the marshmallow morning…swallowing the green and brown of winter…blowing life around …and burying it for fun…

White drift heaps on the screens trying to stop me from falling in love with the storm…but the wind chases its foolishness off… so I can dream

 

Battered trees some bent to their knees…hide the tracks of squirrels…from the Red-Tail’s view…yews wear white top-hats too

The lone wolf…stands and stares…the white hides his prey…determination prowls…the rabbit is sent by God…and his red snow feeds the beast.

 

Breath in the air…sighing …the awesomeness of the white…letting the morning in…as bright surrounds….even the birds won’t sing

Lost flakes meander in the midst of a hurried wind-blown heaven…white wings clip the tree limbs…angels falling everywhere

 

Rocks turn to white…puffs of snow shoot off the roof…old browned oak leaves hold on for dear life…they’ve lost so many friends today

The muse puts on his coat of down…and marches his words all around…until his pen fills up with ink… in deep snow… where poems sink…

 

Beguiled by her white clothes…and her stormy exterior…and the way she floated across my  sky…leaving trace amounts in this soul..

Can beautiful wear anymore white today…the gown she stole from the clouds fits so well…you hate to scar it… by walking in it… even one step

Innocent flakes fall like rain…some scurry some float…each so small…yet they mean so much to each other as they hold hands and drift.

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