Snow
I have always loved
snow.
My favourite kind
is the angel feathers.
A whirlwind of
white thick flakes
That stick to the
sides of posts and trees.
The way it swallows
sounds except whispers.
It transforms all
things.
The shadows change
colour.
You can not tell
sky from ground or ground from sky.
Dancing one way,
then another.
Like a whole world
is dreaming.
All things familiar
are strange.
All things strange
familiar.
It vanishes with
the hot touch.
Burns cold into
hands and feet and noses.
It smells like left
over thunder
Bitten tongue
And cold.
No matter my rage
or pain it transform me too.
Smoothed away
ugliness.
Cools the temper
Leaving something pure
Like snow.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn. - Thomas Gray
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