It’s cold here, cold as the hiss of an angered angel. Cold as the breast of a barren woman. But we are not made to mind the cold, I and my trillion brethren. We float gently down to blanket the stable where a baby cries and a man stares uncomprehending as his virgin bride presents him with an unexpected son.
It’s cold and we band together to hold in what little heat the beasts generate with their breath.
My brothers are glad to be of use to him they are calling the king, but I am afraid. I have seen stars where there should be none. I have heard strange voices singing. I have watched sheep herders bring presents of food and woollen blankets. I have seen camels from the painted lands of the east bring old men bearing unsuitable gifts.
They say snowflakes are individual. That no two of us are the same. But they say a lot of things. I look around me to see million upon million of my siblings locking arms and settling. I am the only one who does not fit.
I am a sad snowflake because I know that tomorrow will bring a warm wind from the south and we will all die…
©️ Jane Jago 2017