Snow is my favorite thing.
I don't know for sure why.
But I can walk so slowly
And not have a care
For the cold tickling my ears
Or the wet feeling leaking
Into my shoes.
Perhaps,
As my friend says,
I am running from something
Or someone,
Hence the desire for weather
That is rather lonely.

Yet,
I prefer to think
On the sparkling stillness
That blankets the earth.
It's silence is found
Even in the breaking of it.
How it burns
As it cools.