Little flakes, small but endlessly
stretching crystals in all directions,
falling and falling, drifting in the wind.
Separated, they are little water droplet
frozen into the shape of a star with six points.
Together, they are a clump of cotton,
so light, and so abundant to only pile up
more and more so on the ground,
painting all around white and bright.
Sometimes, they are so lavished,
they covered the street lights,
creating a winter fog.
Fog that moves around,
embracing everything it touches,
painting everything it embraces.
These little, adorable flakes
decorate the trees, the rooftops, and hoods,
hats and tops of everything that it falls onto.
Beautiful, beautiful, little flakes of solitude.
Hear the cars drive by, the swishes
and swooshes they make
when they run over the fighting flakes,
refusing them to pile up any higher.
The light humming and crunching
of the footsteps as someone walks
through a plain of millions of flakes,
fighting for their own lands, or
enjoying their own land of flakes
as those humming and crunching
charge up or slow down.
Or the tiny, tiny, and soft whisper of
a clump of flakes finally landing on a pile.
Those barely hearable audio,
musical little flakes of solitude.