If I were to get passionate
about the snow,
It would melt.
No matter how carefully
I kept my distance,
It would melt.

And if I walked lightly
leaving the shovel in the garage
and never slam a door
There would be a bare spots
later on.

But snow gets dingy and crusty
losing its vital whiteness
if unloved.

The memory of its quiet drift
falling one snowflake at a time
and my passion rises
in this snow-capped scene.
Every twig and coated wire
would endanger my reserve

And then we both
would surely melt.


If you've any comments on this poem L.Fullington would be pleased to hear from you.

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