In the vacant pastures of the Florida
country side I stand amidst rows of
evergreen trees, that birth and nurture southern magnolias,
waiting for a summer breeze.
When the wind rushes through the trees their petals
take to the skies and begin a slow dance to the Earth's floor
as if winter has come in June.
White petals are snow that will never melt away
nor lose the purity of its color to become
tainted by uniting with the dirty Earth.
It is snow that I can dance in barefoot
snow I can hold. It's warm,
never morphing from its cup shaped figure
into frigid water in my hands.
Of all my travels, I stop here most. A place
where I can walk through a blizzard
while basking in the sun.
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