The only paths exist in memory.
A gentle wind makes a snowman of me,
Bright-eyed and cherry-nosed.
The steps of others litter the way ahead,
Making a mess of the weather's best efforts.
My fingers long to touch so I reach
Bare skin to scoop crystal powder,
Gaze at perfect flakes in half light
While the sky continues to deliver:
The more gifts arrive, the fewer people
Sally forth to find adventure.
I love moving through this stillness.
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