Join Diane, MotherOwl, Mimi, Merry Mae (although MM has been missing in action for quite a few days now -- I suspect computer troubles) and me as we make a splash with this topic. You can leave your poem in the comments, or post on your own blog. If you do the latter, please leave a comment so we can find you. Use the topic, or choose another - it's all good. The idea is to have fun and exercise our brains so they don't turn to mush quite so fast :)
Not long ago, I started to use my camera and heard a little "dink" sound -- rather ominous in spite of its "dinkiness" -- and then a message came up on the screen: Memory is Full.
This necessitated deleting some photos, quite a few photos, in fact. There were pictures on there from over a year ago. I was surprised it had been so long since I last cleared out old shots, and it was interesting to see pictures and videos I had forgotten taking.
A few of them were taken during a snowfall last year. The snowflakes were huge and well-defined. I stood in the doorway in my winter jacket, with my camera, and discovered that the black, fuzzy material of my jacket made a perfect surface for the flakes to stick to as they landed, and a perfect background to take shots of individual snowflakes.
Here's a still shot of one of those snowflakes, enlarged:
The flakes piled up very light and fluffy on the deck railing . . .
. . . and on the trees . . .
It was quiet and peaceful with the snow coming down and I wanted to stand there forever admiring nature's perfection, but my sock-covered feet were getting cold even though I was standing inside the doorway so I reluctantly closed the door on nature and promptly forgot I took those pictures until my camera "dinked" at me.
Good thing my camera has a better memory than I do.
In case you didn't study this in school, here's a short video on how snowflakes form:
Anyway, this is my take on this week's poetry prompt -- because snowflakes are a solid form of water, of course :)
A Question of Perspective
A grain of dust floats through the air
And turns into a snowflake there
It forms a perfect six-point flake
Like all the others in its wake
Yet different -- every one unique --
Due to chemistry mystique
Their beauty and their symmetry
Inspire me to poetry
So why does dust that falls as ice
Seem so spectacularly nice
When on my jacket sleeve is caught . . .
But dust inside my house does not?
Have a good week, everybody.