Rite of Winter

Those nights, there was magic,
whispering softly in the early dark.
Even as I drifted to sleep, I knew—
whether because of the still air
or the coolness under my covers,
as I slipped into them.
Then, with wonder beating in my heart,
I would awake in the dead of night
to the silent, falling crystal flakes,
dancing under soft-lit street lamps,
crowning the already frozen ground,
gracing the world, with no preference
for rich or poor,
old or new,
the beautiful or the broken.
All would be veiled in heavenly white,
soon to kiss the dawn.

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