Fine, wet snow falling. Snow like sifting sugar, adding to last night’s on the lawn, filling in the footprints, whitening the paths I shoveled earlier in the drive. How it comes on harder then, how the branches droop from the weight of it all, a slow procession like life itself. The clocks ticking all the while. And no other sound.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. Sounds like you got more than we did. Just a trace, for us, melting not long after. Not enough even to inspire poetry.

    Liked by 1 person

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