Shelter
We live in the era of partial rhymes
and 27 is a good age to die
There is something special about the sound of snow. The fall of snowflakes is the absence of sound, silent as it tumbles in slow, deafening cascade. But as we walk and stumble our way down the snow-ice covered street, fallen white angels beneath our feet sing high-pitched notes of staccato protest.
Undeterred, we move on, teasing the earth with our footsteps and our laughter as it playfully tries to catch us off guard with patches of ice. If it were thirty degrees warmer, and if snow were sand, we could be stumbling our way out to sea, singing snatches of jazz in time to a tambourine.
Posted by sniffles at December 20, 2003 07:32 PM