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By John I. Blair

Here in the South so rare is snow
We often greet the sight with raucous glee,
Rolling every morsel up
To stack a shabby snowman in the yard.

But snow can seem a semi-sacred thing.
First-flakes sift like feathers
Through the frigid air,
Then flurries fill the view,
Dizzying with movement,
Sanctifying with whiteness.

At times the blizzard steadies
Into a pristine wall,
Mounding into blankets;
Or the wind can catch it,
Blowing hard
To form great shifting buttresses
Behind each car and house and tree.

And when the snowfall ends,
By day the brilliant sunlight
Blinds with glittering reflections,
By night the moonglow,
Redoubled by the snow,
Makes dark resemble day again.

Sounds hush, smells sharpen,
Movements slow.
I feel a ritual is required,
A special way to place my feet
So not to desecrate the surface,
Just walking in the new snow.

2004 John I. Blair  

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