The falling snow is a silent symphony
of endless possibility,
each unique flake a crystalline doorway into
a parallel world.
If I could shrink to their size,
I would walk through their icy thresholds
and behold different you’s and me’s
on the other side:
like wildly successful corporate you,
and drunk and homeless me.
Country music fan you,
jailed political activist me.
Crazy cat lady you,
underground street fighter me.
Religious cult leader you,
crazy cat lady me.
Playboy bunny you.
My every instinct to ruin this moment
with what-ifs and where-we-could-be’s
is hushed by the sound of these worlds
colliding outside the window,
little crescendo cymbals crashing, playing,
and laying the groundwork for this world.
Now the only one that really exists.