All these snowflakes make the room dim.
Big Ones.
Tongue meals for children.
Money for the plow man
and caps for the sculpters.

Confetti for the wind.

The white sky coming to pieces and neatly folding itself on the ground.

"Teacher, are we all different like the snowflakes?"
"Yes, but all bound to melt and slide into the gutters"

It's our glory in the air.

cg