Untitled Poem by Abby Wesson

All the flurries from outside are passing now
Dancing politely across my face
I twirl and laugh and catch them as I spin
As if twisting is a race

Each one so fair
With delicate grace
Each one floating again
Past my face

Now they hurry down to ground
They melt away in sadness
The streets become slick and wet
They flow away in madness

They used to smile and laugh
They play past sunny skies
But someone told them to stop there dreaming
and there their passion dies