Day 38

I have a fondness for snow.
Not all snow, mind you. Slush, for example can be unpleasant. Hail is best viewed and not felt.
Icy flecks in a blizzard storm are a bit too moody for my taste and, frankly, should just work out their issues at home and not take it out the rest of us.
But there is a kind of snow I do have a soft spot for. A sentimental indulgence for.
...
You probably already know what I'm gonna say without me saying it.
The soft stuff. The slow moseying flakes, floating down an invisible staircase like they're the starlet in a big Hollywood picture.
Take your time beautiful, we wait on you.
Those light tufts, gently dropped to Earth.
I like to imagine each one is a little note being passed from sky to ground. They love each other, you see. It's true. And around this time of year they get all sentimental. So the sky puts in the extra effort.
The I love you's aren't so much falling as they're luxuriating to the ground.
It's not a declaration, this won't be breaking into an infectious song and dance.
Not a sudden plea, demanding some kind of return to quell fear and insecurity.
No. This is a crystallization of aeons long courtship, composed of little assurances. Mindlessly holding hands when walking side by side. Lightly laying ones head on the others chest, because pillows are only technically more comfortable than chests. Carelessly moving stray hairs out of their face, so as not to obstruct the view. All this in a thousand-thousand little breaths of I love you, and coming at the rate it's coming, the earth already knows what each note will say. And it doens't mind waiting to hear what it already knows.
This may be why the cold doesn't really bother me, not where snow is involved anyway. (Wind is another story, and don't even get me started on excessive dampness!)
Because snow isn't actually snow. It's little love notes.
And like the best love, it takes. Its. Time.