What is it about snowflakes that they make everything around them . . . magnificent?
Everything they touch sparkles, glistens, wears a robe of white. Entire hillsides, a forest of trees, the tiny whiskers on a cat’s nose.
Snowflakes fall without judgment. They don’t rush to the wild rose but pass the goldenrod. It is their joy to capture all below them and wrap them in white.
I don’t suppose the earth ever says, “no, no, I’m really not worth it,” and casts off the flakes. I’ve never seen a forest shake itself free.
Nature knows better; knows she’s perfect, in all her seasons, in all her ways. There is no vanity there, only respect for Who made her.
See if you can find a clever way to be a snowflake; make someone around you feel special!
Anthea and Marigold catch a glimpse of themselves in the snow.
Snow Angels!
