All is white.
The noise, the light.
The crisp, the cold,
Entrance my soul.
A snowflake falls, so delicate.
Flawless peace surrounding it.
Does it make a sound
When it lands just there?
Nestling so gently,
Without a care?
Perhaps if it does,
It’s the sound of still.
Faint, and so tender,
Yet charged with will.
The trees are idle. The moon is nigh.
Cherishing calm as I look to the sky.
Soliloquy on Imperfectionism 