I am a snowflake, or so they often say,
falling with others, lost in the blind drift
and thinking myself special in my own way
as we all melt together with the seasonal shift.
They mock me as if a bleeding heart
does not give life in every Spring,
the snowmelt fueling the auspicious start
of leaves, flowers, and fruits—everything.
Rivers running through deserts of despair
are fed by snowcaps from great mountains
whose higher grounds foster life with care
so children may play in prosperity’s fountains.
It is better, therefore, to be a snowflake
who, in weeping and bleeding, slakes the earth,
than an icy fang whose unfeeling stake
bites at others for its own cold-comfort mirth.
For what is the tundra but a desert
of hard, hateful ice where nothing grows?
What are cynics but those pleased to hurt
others from whom hope always flows?