The Flakes
by Greg Zemlansky
Dark clouds make their sneaky
appearance.
The sun makes a sudden quick
disappearance.
The flakes are waiting for their
chance to descend.
Waiting quietly for their whiteness
to transcend.
The cold north breeze is kissing my
skin.
The flakes blown by the wind are
distorted within.
The flakes have wings and fly in
different directions.
The fresh flakes cascading snowy
collections.
The flakes gently caressing and
moisturizing the ground.
Slowly gaining speed and strength
not making a sound.
Each hour goes by more roughness
in their actions.
More of ‘Mother Nature’ turns to
white attractions.
