In every flake that falls there is a soul
That, having fallen, becomes as if one
With all the others in the bank or drift
That waits for the swift return of the sun.
Then, as snow melts, returning to the ground,
Along its pathway germinating seeds,
It joins the even greater congregation
In water tables, serving all our needs.
With each reincarnation of the snow,
With every happy purpose thus fulfilled,
The souls of those who, in life, feared so much
Become meditative and their fears are stilled.
Eventually, all return to snow.
This, too, may be the truth; how can we know?