Snow as a Metaphor

 

It started falling in the dark last night, in the early
hours it sat waiting and then leaped, head first toward
some lonely impact, some insignificant spot, alone it
crawled a crazy path from the sky, alone it landed gently
relaxed and waited for the rest to join.

They did and white was the day when I looked out on miles of
nothing, on stretches of blank ideas, nonsensical motives and
irrelevant strategies that define the direction, that create the pull,
that mitigate the circumstance that brought me here, that made
me who I am; uniquely the same as everyone else.

It’s insulation, you know, in a way, in the way that it coats and
completes and covers and condones the transgressions hidden
beneath it’s immovable stare, beneath its miles of nothing…
hidden in full view but disregarded, disbelieved, dismissed
and ultimately not what it’s sameness projects.

Snowflakes with 4, 5, 6, 7 points to their stars, with no idea where
they came from…only where they are now, only where their dreams
tell them to be, but they are no different in a grotesque fashion than
they are in details, no different in direction as they are in velocity, no
different and completely unique unto themselves.

As a metaphor snow works hard not to be classified, not to be lumped
in with everything else…it yearns to be that single entity floating flying falling
forgetting its home only knowing its journey only caring what is after and
never looking back at what was before because to be unique is to separate
from the past, from the herd, from the moment…from itself.

It started falling in the dark last night, in the early
hours it looked around at the trillions of other identically unique versions of
itself…and it leaped.

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