You are the gentle snowflake
Soaring on Winter’s wings.
The cooling breeze on a
Long and scorching summer’s day.
You are the moon
Shining over a frozen lake,
And I am the stars.

You will never be the
Burning touch of a fire,
Nor the brightness
Of the sun.
It is impossible that you could ever be
The fall’s crimson apple upon my tongue,
Nor could you ever be
The new life after the snow melts.

I may be the sharp icicle
On the rooftops,
And I could be the
Blizzard that snaps the tree branches.
I might be the slippery ice
A top the frozen lake.
And I am for sure the
Rashness of frostbite.
But I will never have the grace of you,
My gentle snowflake.

For you will always be the
Scent of poinsettias and evergreen,
And ever the delicacy of snowfall.
You are the sounds of people
Singing praise to the blessed Lord, Jesus.
But most of all, you are the gentle snowflake
Soaring on Winter’s wings.