i wrote a thing

staring at snow

Tiny bits of magic gently dance to the ground, swirling and flirting and playing before joining something greater than any of them on their own. Snow holds memories, even to those who stare, starry-eyed, for the first time. How do those tiny crystal dancers enchant us so, whispering nostalgia's silent, bittersweet ballad. Even with such glazed remembrance, every time feels new.

Their dance begins to hasten. Their delicate waltz is retired in favor of chaos. A frenzy of beauty. Perhaps a battle out in the sky, unbeknownst to us. The silver soldiers hold their silence.

White.

An eternity could be spent watching and still feel to short. Yet it must be short. Snow is a moment. It is framed with such care and blessed with an invisible kiss upon the window. Perhaps a hand upon the glass will allow the cold to make the sight more real. Less like a dream. Mesmerizing. Bewildering. We are taken by the beautiful, beautiful nothing that is snow. Beauty that comes from such nothingness. In this moment in the window's outline, nothing matters. There isn't a worry, a thought, or fear that could challenge the watcher as the snow enchants them. There is resolve it the unresolved. So satisfying to be left unsatisfied.

I fell- I could just- slip away- to the unending sleep- and never notice for a moment.

Any measure spent with snow is held gently in a velvet pocket next to Time's personal watch. An hour with snow is a second and an eternity. Surely, no time has passed at all watching the sky send down tiny blessings. And yet the wisdom calling at our bones suggest we've been at the window for centuries, aging with the world and enjoying her secrets like an old friend.

The unthinking diamonds will fall as long as they please, knowing nothing of us or the romance we have placed on them. How kind of them to, despite their innocent ignorance, perform for us, who watch silently, longing for the everything and nothing that the snow is sure to provide.

Snow.