Snowflakes Poems Novels & Stories

When I walk Through the ice I call it challenge Of the snow I don't sometimes Gain pace But I make my way Eventually Through every ice stone I know it hurts my limbs Every fall, I witness But then for rise one day I create my own day I know the pain Of snow I know the gain To find your way I know it hurts more But then it's legit The day is not torn The day is not torn If you catch me right In peace If you enable rest From unrest When in ease I gather speed Yes, I gather the speed I know whom to blame I know why to not Live in shame With the snow With the snow Near all my home It is panic at times When food goes stale And there is no way To walk away for more But I will live the same way In

The sapphire frost did not fall like snow. It fell like shards of a broken sky, silent and razor-sharp, each flake carrying a microscopic weight of the Void. Where it touched the jasmine petals, the flowers didn't just wither; they crystallized into brittle blue glass that shattered with a sound like a dying gasp. The sweet scent of the valley was replaced by the ozone of the Deep—a cold, metallic smell that made the lungs ache and the blood turn to slush.

The first snow of winter arrived on the longest night of the year. It was a soft, unhurried snowfall, the kind that transformed the world into a hushed, white stillness. Maya stood at the kitchen window, a mug of tea warming her hands, watching the flakes drift down and settle on the bare branches of the garden. The lighthouse was a pale, ghostly shape against the grey sky, its light still turning, patient and steady.

**Winter’s Embrace** The first snowfall of winter transformed Port Haven into a quiet, glistening wonderland. A thick layer of fresh snow blanketed the ground, covering the roofs, trees, and garden beds in soft white. The world outside was still, as if holding its breath, and the air was filled with a magical hush.

If I could just think clearly… if I could just stop shaking… maybe I could fix this. With a sudden thump, I sank onto the floor near the window. The wooden boards were cold beneath me, their chill seeping through the thin fabric of my clothes. Snowflakes slipped in through the slight opening of the window, landing softly on my lap like fragile pieces of a broken sky. A gust of wind brushed against my face, mingling with the tears that now flowed freely down my cheeks. The cold feels almost alive, biting, reminding me of everything I can’t control. Everything that’s slipping away.

That very night, the first fall of snow, two private planes landed at different airports boarded the most powerful and wealthiest people on the entire globe. The world was raining fluffy silver snowflakes. It acts like an angel, fluttering down from the sky with such grace and elegance, and softly lands on the earth. The snow-covered people seem to have come to an elegant and quiet realm, and come to a crystal-clear fairytale world. The scent of snow gives a cool and soothing comfort. It sprinkled beauty everywhere.

"Once upon a time, in the middle of winter, the snowflakes were falling like feathers from the sky. At a castle window framed in ebony sat a young Queen working at her embroidery, and as she was stitching away and gazing at the snowflakes now and then, she picked her finger and three little drops of blood fell down upon the snow.

He is going to get this so wrong. "Flores crescere in vere. Vivaldi Nisi aquae de sero se foras mittetur. Cadent folia in autumno. Snowmen adepto constructum- in hyeme. Omnia sit circuit per circulos." he says in Latin. My jaw must be on the floor he can speak Latin beautifully. (Flowers grow in spring. Water gets thrown in Summer. Leaves Fall in Autumn. Snowmen get built-in Winter. Everything goes around in circles.) "Good, Brooke can you repeat this poem," Mrs. Stelch asks while writing down a new one.

It was deep into the night, with the snowfall persisting. The accumulating snow on the pathways deepened, sometimes revealing faint tire impressions from those returning home. The delicate snowflakes fell in no particular direction, scattered and gentle, looking the same wherever they landed—pure and pristine white.

It was an antique hand fan with black ribs. As the hand fan was unfolded, a landscape was painted in thick ink on the surface of the fan, depicting a snowy day. The brush technique was amazing, and it was likely painted by a great man of the time! It would be impossible to paint something like that without decades of knowledge and experience! A poem was also written in a corner of the fan: ‘One flake, two flakes, snowflakes three and four; five six, seven eight, nine flakes, ten and more; gliding into plum-flowers, snowflakes were seen no more.’