There is redemption in the first heavy snowfall of winter.
All troubles seem blanketed away,
so that innocent joy
can romp on the surface
amidst the white fluff,
like a child in the eye of a pillow fight.
There is still water in the air.
The wilted leaves and dirty streets
erase
with a crystalline powder cleanse,
like the shake of an etch-a-sketch.
There is wonder and hope in this natural magic,
this forced contemplation,
this cessation of noise.
What shall we do with this precious moment?
