Rush Hour


The snow is falling like it’s in a hurry

Tiny crystalline flakes, bunched together

Jostling each other in the frigid air

Like commuters jockeying for a good seat on the train

Each one making its way insistently down

Only to pile up

Taking its place in the wintry weave

The blanket meant to comfort and rest the earth

Never have I thought of snow as comforting

Until I stood still and watched

Until I sensed the snow’s eagerness

To be about its work


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