Dust mop snow flurries
flit through frozen air
sideways, up, down,
hovering momentarily,
before falling to frozen ground,
a resting place.
Do snowflakes feel the cold?
Do they fear growing old?
Created, born,
descending to earth, delighting child's eyes,
lingering one on top of another, fated
to bask in glory on field once green,
or perhaps be shoveled and plowed,
chemically altered, polluted.
Do snowflakes feel abandoned?
Do they worry about dying?
Sun drenched snow banks melt,
streamlets run ruts in Mother Earth,
rousing her awake.
She stretches ragged arms, yawns,
drinks till satiated,
overflows rivers to run rough, as
crystals thaw, cascade down hillsides steep.
Do snowflakes fear becoming liquid?
Do they have a nirvana to reach?
Soon Spring on doorstep
will burst buds of joy out of winters breast,
dust mop snow flurries having been retired, are
switched for seeds of milkweed, air-dancing.
Oh, seasons oft' repeated drill,
the wonder will not be stilled:
Do snowflakes feel their life is mad?
Do they ever fear they've been had?
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