No Sound Try Here
Snow flakes drift almost lazily down,
Not driven by cold north wind's blow...
Like someone uncertain of direction,
Confused as to which way to go.
Still the flakes seem destined by nature's design,
To wedge in their very own space...
Except for those that fail to survive,
When they melt on my hair and my face.
They cover the grass and hide it from view,
And slowly they all settle in....
Followed by more of their very own kind,
First a dusting, then deep as my shin.
With persistence and given plenty of time,
Snow transforms to winter delight...
Paints a gray world almost as if by magic,
And turns it to Puritan white.
(c) 02/15/07 Loree (Mason) O'Neil
Photo: One of the many beautiful wooded paths around my home in Hermitage, Virginia