Snow, drifting on a cloudless night
The only light is that which reflects
From the stringed lights onto that snow
The air is crisp
A definite chill is in the air
Cardinals balance on icy branches
Fir trees rustle in the gentle breeze
I sit, and I ponder,
What is my purpose?
Am I really as rare and unique
As each and every snowflake?
Or are we all uniform,
Pretending to be something we are not
Simply to make ourselves
Feel better, filled with false security
Self-imposed confidence and
As I sit there
And stare at the children
Playing, running, singing
Wrapped in their tiny scarves
Small, mittened hands reaching
For their parent’s large, bare ones,
Is it our families who start to shape
The mold of our lives?