Life and Breath of Snow

I don’t exactly remember the beginning; although I am sure that hardly most anyone ever does.

It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t quite warm, either.

It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t quite light.

It was, however, peaceful.

Very Peaceful.

I was light; just floating about without much of a purpose, really.

Sometimes I would bump into others like me.

We didn’t talk; we never have.

We had never seen a point to waste our breath filling the world with meaningless chatter.

I doubt that there would be anything that could ever change our minds.

Why break the peace and silence only to say something without meaning anyway?

After all, the world would become a rather loud place if everyone did.

The wind, however, believed otherwise.

It talked rather often, and usually at quite a loud and fast pace.

It told us things that we never cared much about to fully listen to, but were still intrigued enough to hear.

Like how it likes to sing with the trees, but it would blow off their leaves every autumn because the clouds had whispered something that angered it.

Like how it enjoys the sounds that result in it blustering about a busy city in between the large windowed buildings.

Like how much it enjoyed summer because it gave it a chance to gossip with the bees and the birds flitting about the countryside.

The clouds would whisper that the wind could gossip with the birds during winter, and the birds chattered about how the wind just enjoyed blowing away the loosely held items of the people who lived there.

The wind never paid much mind to what they said.

The wind would instead drift away before returning some time later with gossip or a new story to share.

The wind would also tell us of the weather. Specifically of how the temperature was rapidly dropping. Of how winter has finally arrived.

Hearing this excited the clouds.

They began to endlessly chatter about Snow.

They said many nice things, and I was curious as to what Snow was.

It sounded pleasant.

It wasn’t long before I became heavy.

Searching around me, it was plain to see that the others were feeling the same.

It was a hazy time, and the clouds kept repeatedly whispering the word which aptly held my intrigue.

Snow.

What does this curious word mean? Why does this word fill me with a sense of belonging? Why do I wish to hear more of this strange phenomenon?

And before I could open my mouth to ask my question, to do something that no other like me has done before, I was falling.

It was nice.

It wasn’t too different from floating; it felt much the same.

I couldn’t see the others like me, but I knew they were there.

The wind was also there swirling about me, laughing.

“What is Snow?” I finally managed to ask it.

The wind, surprised by my question, gleefully replied, “You are!”

Those were beautiful words.

‘Snow is a beautiful thing’, I thought, as I drifted softly to the ground.

And looking at all of the others like me,

Looking at all of the white snow like me,

Seeing us cover the ground and the trees,

Seeing young children laughing and playing,

Seeing how happy we make people,

Is truly a beautiful thing.

I like being Snow.

I like being a part of something without words.

And I like the fact that when I melt,

I will create something new and equally beautiful.

And soon, I will hear the clouds talk,

And the wind gossip,

And the birds sing,

And, possibly,

I might just want to waste my breath.

But is it truly wasting it when the words turn out to be just as beautiful as everything else around you?