Something is poetic in the way different branches of different trees carry their snow.
Evergreen trees huddle in their snow like homeless men on the cold streets of cities…
they're wearing two or three bulky down coats but still each gentle icey breeze seems likely to blow them away.
and theyre calm. under the incredible weight we assume they are carrying.
the other, leafless, trees wear their white like jewels.
like rich woman in sparse black evening gowns... skinny and shivery in their fashion- wearing diamonds.
What is cinematic about a field covered in a untouched sheet of snow?
cinematic? or symbolic?
a field, unlike a road, has no direction.
well. in truth. it has infinite direction.
every direction.
and the snow makes it original direction.
it is cinematic in its image of infinite possibility discovered by no one but the perhaps one pair of footprints- you.
one track leading somewhere out of infinity.
Unoriginality is no longer original you know...
billy collins copy righted that adjective with his poem about copying other poems.
and im sure someone did it before him.
and someone did it before someone else who did it before someone who did it first.
and we can trace it all back to that first person who originated all things unoriginal.
Fascinating.
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