261 - Snow falls on fir trees, slowly. The eyes see

Snow falls on fir trees, slowly. The eyes see
Them filling. Nothing solitary, unique.
Each tree seems the same, each snowflake, icy
White blanket on the ground, surrounding peak,
Slightly distinguishable, ground down, bleak
Equally, under uniform grey cloud
Stretching unbroken. In vain the eyes seek
A dark or light patch there within that shroud,
Evenly woven from a heavenly crowd
Of particles, all far to small to be
Told apart. Yet each one of them could speak
With cold and windy tongue so sure and proud
Of its difference from all the rest. Each tree,
Snowflake or drift of air has its distinct mystique.
Wed 23 May 2007