A snow flake touched her skin
and her body quivered a little.
Formed in the nimbus high above,
amalgamation of earth, water, wind and fire.
And when the time comes nigh,
Clouds smother the sky
The time is ripe.
Blow your trumpets, Gabriel,
its the birth of a flake.
Bound towards the earth
In a hurry, partly a flurry.
Blown this way and that.
Unaware of time and its part.
By itself it is incomplete and innocuous.
The landing place provides the right contrast and hue.
She stood on open plain,
Desolated grey.
In quotidian ritual.
The snow flake landed on her skin
And her body shivered.
For even in the cloudy sky,
the sun shone brighter than ever.
As apparent as air,
blood came surging to the brain,
And a smile to the face.
She breaks into a canter
with arms wide open,
to fly, fly away.
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