Snow was falling – trying

to fall.  Merely dust-like beyond glass

splash painted with dried grime of rain.

A futile white wash on a world

grey with fatigue, blue-hued from screens

ever on.  Cloud-covered skies, minds

veiled in electricity – a buzz

the only music in ears tuned not to listen to the void.

 

But outside, a hush, proffered comfort

remnant from a time when there was faith

descends: unseen; ignored.

The snow swells its flakes, blanketing ground no feet

will tread for hours – the people sat indoors,

attention rapt by figures, numbers

on repeat.  Money

now is god for souls unused to peace

in a flower, too early bloomed and shivering;

in a feather, on its danced descent

from wings aloft in sky overhead;

in a face, red-cheeked with air fresh and chill

from venturing into that cleansed-for-a-moment scene –

vivid reminder of what joy once was,

when life was conducted in the tangible,

the living real that knows the feel

of crumbs of soil to the touch and fragility

of a petal to a fingernail.

 

The snow falls on.

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