Snowflakes fell
We watched in astonishment
Their peaceful cascade
Landing without a sound
But causing a ripple
An array of responses
Awe crested faces-
Eyes peering through
Frosted windows
At a world they imagined
Existed within the flakes
Nature’s dance
A perfect step
That we knew happened
Each year
Yet still each flake
An earthquake erupted
Changing plans
And rerouting trails-
Changing events we believed
We controlled-
Putting a pause on our movements
A halt in our climb
Just for now-
Reminding us of
Our humanity
And the quiet way
We are amazed by things
We can’t control-
By things we say we despise-
Simply because
We are unable to enjoy them
The way we did
With childlike innocence
When all we had to do
Was focus on learning
And drawing from the earth
The knowledge we knew
To exist
Before we were given
Clocks to read
And numbers to count,
Allowing our favorite paths
To collect dust
Like the fairy tales
We wanted to read
In place of the text books
Piled high in our laps.
We watch the snow
The flakes fall
And are pulled back
To the line of education
We chased when we were young
Our worship for the natural world
And all its beauty
Bringing us back
To the innocence of first snow.
Katrina Thornley is a nature poet and novelist that resides in Rhode Island. She has two poetry collections currently published, a novel, as well as a short story anthology. Her poetry collections "Arcadians: Lullaby in Nature" and "Arcadians: Wooden Mystics" were inspired by a local park and life in her small rural town. You can find them on Amazon now!
Also, be sure to give her a follow on Instagram (@seekatwrite).
About the Creator
Katrina Thornley
Rhode Island based author and poetess with a love for nature and the written word. Works currently available include Arcadians: Lullaby in Nature, Arcadians: Wooden Mystics, 26 Brentwood Avenue & Other Tales, and Kings of Millburrow.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
In Fowler, California we hardly ever saw snow. One day I had a truckload of snow brought down to town, and we dumped it in a small park next to my office. Oh, how the kids loved it. It only lasted about two hours; it was certainly not a 'first snow' like you mentioned.