A short poem for the snow flake

The snow falls.

It rest with little resistence to the earth even as the powerful wind drives it from its path.

It glows in the light.

Connects earth with the sky.

It is unique but indistinguishable.

And it has little time.

Or perhaps, not enough time.

If only it had more time and less pressure from the rest of the weather.

And possibly less self-doubt, less concern for its brittle stature.

Soft and thorough, it eventually lays down all its strength and remakes the contours of the earth until the earth is no more.

No longer distant and distinguishable.

Just one wide ocean of white stillness.