This snow is ethereal.
It is so light. Lighter than salt. Or flour. Almost like flower petals.
Layer after layer of patient powder drifting down in silence.
And after a few hours, this whole world covered in a dense, soft blanket of purity. Even the garbage. And the silt. Even the dirt and the mud. All of the stuff piled up next to the house, every day a somber reminder of the ominous clean up to come, here it is now under a downy quilt of virgin ivory. Sinless. Forgiving. Pure, like thick, syrupy water. Like a protective cloak. Or a wedding gown. Or a baby's fleecy sleeper.
It falls as only a cover up. It doesn't solve the grey, the mirk or the unkempt. It solves nothing but the dilemma of the moment, replacing all of the intentions with a uniformed feeling of clean.
And that is good enough for me today, to think a little bit better about who I am where I'm at.
Cover me in your wedding gown. Clothe me in white. Cleanse me with hope, because even the temporal, fleeting notion of purity is breathtaking.
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