Social Snowmen


United States
44° 57' 5.9904" N, 93° 9' 46.4616" W

Winter isn’t just coming
It’s here.
And it is all I hear about.
“Everything is cold,” you say,
Everything is wet,
Everything is slow!”
But you know
There’s something to this business of being slow.
‘Cuz, you see--
Ever since winter steered its slick snow and shivery sleet
Into my face
I’ve become grateful.

The winter season, you see, has been giving me reasons—
Has imparted to me,
via the water-Chrystal impressions of nature’s pure confessions,
the snow flakes,
a message about humankind.
Oh yes, those small, soft, promises that sting your face assure us
That the cosmic order of the world is quality,
Distilled in vehicles of infinity,
Because not a single snowflake is alike, you see?

Winter gives us snowflakes,
And snowflakes are a blessing.
In a dry breath, telling us
That we are unique,
Each unto our own kind of beauty.
I like to stop and watch, thinking
That each snowflake will never in its current form exist again
Like me.

Last Winter whispered to me
why fear the absent sun? Don’t run--
Slow down.
Notice the mood of meditation,
Give your sun-salutations to the momentary unity
Of snowflakes
As they blow by, obscuring imperfections and ascribing themselves to perfection
Because nothing is more beautiful
than diversity.
And yet, how soothing,
to be quietly one
with all.
Standing still,
while snowflakes fall.

There is serenity--
In me. In you. In snow-like-stars-falling.
so. Much. Potential.
Falling down
like it could be a gift.

I noticed that you can’t see a flake until it out of day or night skies emerges
Out of light and dark, emerges,
Distinct from what made it and what it will become,
arising first as condensation, the collective birth of the cloud community
But ending with the dirt
where we walk so loud
Eventually becoming—
gray sludge?
Sludge slick on the ground, tripping and slowing busy Americans who Do Not Have Time To Be Slowed.
We have got to be slow to know the snowflakes.
A snowflake only exists between life and death, you see
existential crisis arising between the sky and the ground--
“remember you’re potential!” we say--
and ending with the dirt, in piles, in mass graves to be molded
Into Snowmen.
Plain, and white, and cold.
They’ll adorn us with all the human trappings--
Most of them follow the same routine:
Coal and carrots and a top-hat,
Like there’s some sort of road-map to normal,
A design we all live by.
They’ll put the right eyes, the right smiles,
A cute scarf, even!
Socialize the snowflakes while they are young and untouched.
And then we stand up, alive—“happy birthday!
We made you in our image and our image is
White and middle-to-upper class
You are not a snowflake, you are just snow
An entity, and clay for the institution
And we make you.
Maybe your snow is dirty. Maybe
You’re a little sloppy.
But we have the power
To pack you into our fists
And squeeze.
Never doubt that.”

So they’ll cap some and call them finished
And send us all on our ways
And we’ll find our way
Until summer comes
And we melt.

I miss
when the snowflakes where like the stars and stars where just light--
People used to think, you know, that stars were actually just holes
Poked in the fabric of the sky
and the light
was heaven peeking through.
Heaven falls from the sky, you guys!
And we walk all over it.


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