a poem by Westly Alexander Shaw, USA

From the gray clouds above tiny flakes appear.
Each with a unique design, and one of a kind.
I watched from the glass as they danced, and
landed as soft as a feather onto the ground.
One snowflake did nothing, but together they
formed a blanket of white on the ground.
Untouched, and so perfect, until I got my hands
on them. So fragile, they disappear as if by
magic on my fingertips.
I stop, and thank God, as these snowflakes are
a winter blessing.

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