Soft, precious,
Gentle thing,
Pure white,
Untouched and clean.
Though cold, alone,
Deemed just a speck of dust,
Prickling pain it’d bring,
Even in a regular light gust.
Isolated, ’tis nothing
But a flake —
Yet when gathered,
It could be inherently great.
Melt, it will,
In hands of warmth.
Icy, chilling, frigid are the places
From which I’m brought forth.
With seasons,
I come and go —
Often fragile,
And so alone.
So please, heed
What you’re about to be told:
Sometimes, truly,
I just want to be held.
