I have no idea why I'm inspired to write about snowflakes.
Why does the poetry bug bite?
The puppies are playing junkyard dog -- you know, the growling, snarling, fighting that siblings everywhere partake in. Except with 65 pound dogs, you don't allow it in the living room next to the cute little antique table with the Ming vase perched on top. Fortunately, the kids took care of my Ming years ago.
Ocean's Eleven blares from the living room. My Cheerios/Grape-Nuts bowl shares table space with my laptop, and I'm transfixed by the snow.
Velvet on Ice
Black velvet sky
No one does black velvet like God
Shards of ice bits
Swirling
Swooping
Floating
Each perfect
created
individual
Being what
Doing all
that it was created for
Covering filth
Blanketing brokenness
Glorifying the Creator
Floating like grace
Covering dead and dying
Painting a picture
of redemption
on living black velvet
