The sky, congested with gray, drops millions of little while flurries.
The ground is thick; the trees are bare.
Sight extends no more than fifty yards to the past or the future.
Each torrent of flurries presents another wave of nostalgia.
The wall of white obscures the view while imbuing hope.
The chill forces the heart to beat with greater fury.
Enveloped by a snow-strewn midst, I am lost in wonder.
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