Fresh.
Freshly fallen.
Freshly fallen snow. It's like the majesty of heaven laid out before us. A carpet of whiteness so pure as if to declare the coming of royalty. But not the vain kings & queens of ages past. Ones who clothed themselves in the richness of burgandy and velvet.
No, this is the Prince of Love. And so, he brings the light of life. So brightly blinding the world it covers seems somehow dim and drab by comparison.
Freshly fallen snow. Like angels on high they fill the sky. Slowly they dance through the black night air with the grace and elegance of little ballarinas.
Each flake a masterpiece of beauty.
Each flake a different story.
Each flake.
Each flake falls.
Each flake falls to the ground. The stories build upon each other into epic adventures of sledding down hills and then hot chocolate with marshamllows. The beauty grows until it seems the angels are making themselves in the snow! Each flake falls to the ground perfectly like each stoke of a master artisans brush across canvas.
All this... in each flake of freshly fallen snow.
2 comments:
Mmmm. By all accounts, I think it's pretty freaking cold!
You've reminded me of so many good winter memories. God, I have to try to make winter more exciting!
I adore the replicated lines. They sounded so nice in my head and they sounded even grander when I read them out loud.
It may not be what you normally write, but I'm a fan.
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