Tuesday, January 31, 2012

When

snow arrives you say it’s you. It blankets plants, the tall oak, and the pine. It laces hair and rests on shoulders. 

It’s not you. 

You cannot tame weather like a lion, whether you whip it, take hold of it, wrestle it, or smoother it. You cannot store snow in a chest in my heart and then take big bites whenever you want.

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