Ark of the Lost Angels

_{Credit: Author}

The world is changed by snowfall.

Ambient light bounces off the white,
Reflecting off clouds too thick for the sun to breach, 
Blurring the line between the artificial glow
And the dying embers of the daylight. 
The world seems to fall in between realities,
Where the time of day doesn’t quite matter. 

The blanket over the world dulls the sounds,
Quieting the mind and slowing the heart,
Offering a kind of quiet where the world falls away.
Your nose starts to burn with how crisp the air is,
but it’s the cleanest you’ve breathed in months.
You never realized your lungs could feel the odd sensation of peace.

Childhood mornings where the blankets seem too sweet to leave,
But the living room TV held the promise of liberty.
Running out to watch the scroll beneath the local news,
Ignoring reporters discussing traffic conditions 
To see if the name of your institution showed up
And said you were off that day.

Will my children know a white winter?
Will they dance in falling snowflakes,
Trying to catch them on their tongue,
Arguing over whether December or January ones taste better?
Will they have snowball fights,
Build snowmen, and go sledding on steep hills?

We burn the world: rocks and trees and the air,
But we also burn dreams and magic and wisdom,
Squandering our inheritance
So that our children may never taste of its bounty.
What does that say about us as parents?

We forsook the wonders of the natural world
To build the miracles of the modern age.
Are these miracles worth all of the true magic?