It was only today that I realized how much I hate snow. Walking from my apartment to the car I felt my feet sink into that glistening powder. Flakes collected on my coat and in my hair with blinding flurries attacking my lashes. I blink, shaking my head - not like it will do any good; the snow just keeps falling. The flakes wait for no man, it seems.
Every so often I look behind me and I stare at the progress I've made. The intricate design on the tread of my boots is replaced ever so slowly with an onslaught of sugar. It's like my progress has been erased, and the ground that I've covered can never be proved. The flakes wait for no man, it seems.
I used to think people passed by like Autumn leaves, with their footsteps scraping almost silently. I can go back, in the snow, and make my own steps again; but like the leaves blowing by and the snow piling ankle high, it will never be the same. The flakes wait for no man, it seems.
They certainly do not wait for me.
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