There is something romantic
about
light
snowfall
on an early spring morning.
I just can't put my gloved finger on it...
It has something to do with
the final goodbye of Father Winter,
the last kiss
from
falling
flakes.
Perhaps it's the way
the birds still chase each other
despite the cold whip of the snow.
Maybe it's the way the daffodils look,
yellow dresses
powered
in
sparking
diamonds,
swaying
slowly to
Father's
lulling tune.
It has something to do with the way
the waking sun
pours
pink
light
onto the dreary eyed school children
Yes, there is something romantic
about a
light
snowfall
on an early spring morning.
But it's heartbreaking to
crumble
the fresh blanket,
or to watch it
melt
away.
Seeing the sun
beating
heat
onto frozen grass,
until the snow
sinks or
hides in shadows.
Soon all that is left of the morning snowfall
is the crisp breeze
and the odd sense of mourning
among the spring daffodils.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
There is something romantic
about
light
snowfall
on an early spring morning.
I just can't put my gloved finger on it...
It has something to do with
the final goodbye of Father Winter,
the last kiss
from
falling
flakes.
Perhaps it's the way
the birds still chase each other
despite the cold whip of the snow.
Maybe it's the way the daffodils look,
yellow dresses
powered
in
sparking
diamonds,
swaying
slowly to
Father's
lulling tune.
It has something to do with the way
the waking sun
pours
pink
light
onto the dreary eyed school children
Yes, there is something romantic
about a
light
snowfall
on an early spring morning.
But it's heartbreaking to
crumble
the fresh blanket,
or to watch it
melt
away.
Seeing the sun
beating
heat
onto frozen grass,
until the snow
sinks or
hides in shadows.
Soon all that is left of the morning snowfall
is the crisp breeze
and the odd sense of mourning
among the spring daffodils.
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