Perfection

It is perfection, this snow.
A third day of whiteness,
without wind or man
to subdue it, or tarnish it

with black mud, sand and salt.
It is allowed to be
as it was meant to be.
Brutally beautiful.

About this poem

I love snow. I love learning about people, and all the beauty that so many of them don’t see as beauty.

But they are wrong.

Tom