Snowflakes are not like raindrops when they fall.
Something could be said for how
they take their own direction.
Just as each snowflake is individual.
Elusive floats. Their own path to Earth,
to tops of cars and nooks of conifers.
The bigger flakes flutter down like the leaves
of a cherry blossom blown by Spring’s breath.
Snow lands on windscreens like the
ends of six needles,
Softness prickles on impact.
Not as innocent as first they seem
and how could they be, when they veer
from the rest to regroup and wreak havoc.
Sly, mischievous little flakes sifting
onto our paths, to slip us up
when the men are made, fingers froze and we
had trodden them well. Made them packed.
Compact. They make a pact to make
us veer in car-radio silenced,
roads of ice;
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Comments about this poem (Fragments by Kelly Creighton )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1644 - 1694)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
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