Magic

I know this isn't necessarily related to poetry but...

There's something about the first real snowfall of the season that captures the imagination and sends it soaring. With snow flakes the size of diced peaches drifting to the ground I can reach my hand out of the window of my apartment and pull them in before they even begin to melt. The silence that covers the world brings back memories of late nights on the ice under similiar skys , dancing and weaving, with the only sound that of blades carving their story into the solid expanse.

On second thought maybe this is about poetry after all.