It's snowing
The snow on the trees is incredibly beautiful to wake up looking at.
100 billion different variations on the same pattern forming, floating, and becoming nothing. Each beautiful, invisible one of them fall to the earth and merge into an infinite blank, or melt on the cement, unnoticed.
They only love what they can see. I am content to watch them from my window; I have no wish to infect them. A child's first instinct is to carry the beauty with him. "It's mine," he says as he gathers the billions of individuals into his frail arms and continues on his way. I'm not going to take a picture. I'm not going to write anything more than this. I won't even touch them. I'm only going to admire them, and not defile their beauty.
Forgive me for being a dramatist.
100 billion different variations on the same pattern forming, floating, and becoming nothing. Each beautiful, invisible one of them fall to the earth and merge into an infinite blank, or melt on the cement, unnoticed.
They only love what they can see. I am content to watch them from my window; I have no wish to infect them. A child's first instinct is to carry the beauty with him. "It's mine," he says as he gathers the billions of individuals into his frail arms and continues on his way. I'm not going to take a picture. I'm not going to write anything more than this. I won't even touch them. I'm only going to admire them, and not defile their beauty.
Forgive me for being a dramatist.