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

Haughty apprehension?

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,

I wonder:

Is it our families who start to shape

The mold of our lives?

This poem is about: 


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