it’s not all bad

Snow lazily lands on a withered branch;
The branch bobs wistfully with the wind.
But movement does not hurry
The snow along its journey.
 
Each flake interlocks with another and rests
On the branch’s back–
Hunched from the blanketed weight,
The weathered stick cannot hold straight.
 
The branch braces
And holds firm–
The heavy white cover
 Hugs tight like a mother.
 
The sun breaks through,
And each sparkling flake
Makes the decrepit splinter
Seem alive against the pale nothingness of winter,

A passerby thinks.

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