Is Love Like the Snow?

“Is love like the snow? Does it arrive silently, with no fanfare? Will it fall from the cloudy skies above and color the world in its hue?” - A Sign of Affection, Yuki Itose E1 11:27

________

Is love like the snow?

Never before had I given it such a thought

that something as everlasting as love

could be compared to the brief life of a falling flake.

From its birth it is unique -

fingerprinted in rain,

drowned in chill,

and cast down from a darkening horizon.

Might love also arrive like this?

Unique in it's form, created by tears -

cast out by fears.

But then that cold, wet thing falls

down, down, down

and there is no straight path for where it may land,

for wind and waves and hands may come

to pluck, pull or push it off course

but nevertheless it still comes

to blanket the world in its soft, white hues.

_

Yet, I know love as something more coarse - imperfect,

a mockery of the soft, delicate thing I wish it was.

Like sand it sits

piled up on the banks of a never-slowing river,

one among millions like it

all seemingly smoothed and rounded,

but upon closer inspection invite

a comparison to that of lumped coal -

or a cancerous growth.

It sticks to you, rain or shine

worming its way between your toes, your clothes

eroding surfaces over time in a painfully slow waltz

that we think we can decipher with a slant of glass.

-

Perhaps it is not so tiny and insignificant as my mind protests -

maybe it is a miracle launched into the tides of time and tales

outlasting the silk-drenched and armor-clad,

the restless toilers and wandering navigators.

Every so often the sun, moon and planets align,

to cast shadow, shape, and memory back onto the earth.

Cycles of cosmic events both known and unknown

unfolding before our eyes, twisting into shapes

we recognize from legends old.

Love is in these stories far more often than madness

or the desperate prayers of the faithful against the tides of war,

but what does that say about the priceless worth of love?

If it is written in stone - everlasting,

then what makes it special?

-

Then, by association, love is as ancient as madness,

and one may argue this makes them interchangeable

leading us to believe in the damned and the divine

as nothing more than opposite sides of a coin

and just as eternal as those spectacular displays

of space, time and human ingenuity

crashing together in a planned dance.

This I can agree, as I have never felt closer to madness

than when I was in love.

I can still achingly recall the nights

shedding myself of thought and emotion

if only to escape it briefly -

before I let love's touch hurt me again

or let my mind turn against itself.

Love, like madness, is a poison

ever fueled by fickle promises

and bought with gifts to ease those doubts

of wondering whether this grey cloud is rain or ice

and if it should be defined so strictly.

Love is this - cold, eternal, unrelenting,

and yet I keep letting it in.

-

Back to those snowflakes my thoughts take me;

to that agonizing question:

Is love like the snow?

Whether or not I am ready to answer,

I can amuse the thought that each love in of itself

is unique and special just like every masterpiece that falls,

and that perhaps in my time of imperfect floods

of coarse sand and crushing boulders

that there was something to appreciate in each instance,

regardless of the lack of gentleness to which I was fed

this precipitous emotion called love.

Is love like the snow?

Maybe for us, one day

it shall be.

____________

[ If you read only the BOLD text, you will receive this: ]

Is love like the snow?

Never before had I given it such a thought

but nevertheless it still comes

Yet, I know love as something more coarse - imperfect,

a mockery of the soft, delicate thing I wish it was.

Perhaps it is not so tiny and insignificant as my mind protests -

maybe it is a miracle launched into the tides of time and tales

Love is in these stories far more often than madness

or the desperate prayers of the faithful against the tides of war,

Then, by association, love is as ancient as madness,

and one may argue this makes them interchangeable

This I can agree, as I have never felt closer to madness

than when I was in love.

Love, like madness, is a poison

and yet I keep letting it in.

Is love like the snow?

Is love like the snow?

Maybe for us, one day,

It shall be.

_________________

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