How we are like a snowflake each our own shape.
We’re all born pure, and land wherever the wind takes us.
Our destination is never for certain, for a cloud over a calm field,
May have flakes land in a distant fire,
Or fall to the concrete and get shoveled aside
Forgotten of their magic and stomped to ice.
Not you, the flake on the other side of the mountains,
The flake that is part of an aura of calmness and peace.

How we are like a snowflake each magical and full of potential.
Some turned to snowmen or formed to angels,
Others turn to ***** for a joyous fight,
Some flakes fall on mountain tops and remain up there for years,
Others fall to that same mountain and cause an avalanche.
Some fall to rivers and wash away and are never seen,
Not you, the flake that remains the same, that is untouched by time
And unscathed by hands and prints, needing no other form to remain beautiful.

Some flakes get walked all over turned hard and cold,
Unfavorable to be around and hurtful when one falls.
Other flakes are turned to homes providing shelter and comfort.
You’re that flake free and soft, still able to fly with the wind.
You’re that snowflake in the wilderness, the clean snowflake
Not covered in dirt, not marked, and not yet on top of the mountain,
But that snowflake that is full of so much potential and beauty.
Oh how we are like a snowflake, and how you’re brilliant among us all.

It’s the cool breeze on windless summer day.
Tall grass gently swaying on a poise afternoon.
It’s the mesquite tree in the yard tolerant enough to grow.
A dry lively summer brewing in the dead of night.
A cool gust comes from the west dragging a pail of water,
The flooding the cracked and thirsty Earth.
It’s a five acre pond replacing the countryside.
Grass and shrubs drowning as they take a last breath.
It a crackle of lightning playing in the background,
Along with the thrumming of rain on the forming lake.
Bristles of hay coming down the creek,
And clogging the ditches introducing the crawdads.
It’s the chocolate lab running joyously through the rain.
Two brothers playing football in the puddles.
A father starting a peaceful mud fight.
It’s a mother cooking jambalaya and baking cornbread.
It’s Christmas in July.