Through my window

As I watch the falling snow, white, thick fur on tree branches and pristine, perfect blanket covering sidewalks and tiny squares below my window – I think: how peaceful and beautiful it is, how appropriate for Christmas, like from pages of forgotten, nostalgic children’s storybooks.
And than I see not a child building a snowman but an older woman falling few times as she tries to cross the buried in snow crosswalks, I hear suddenly the screeching noise of car which tries to navigate through heavy snow, I can see the hungry and distressed birds which lost their regular access to food. Yes, the view from my window did not change; it is still hauntingly nostalgic and majestic. But less peaceful, more attune to reality.

Wherever there is beauty – the ugliness is not far.
A good deed and gesture dirtied by vestiges of crime and violence.
Love tainted by jealousy. Life attached to death.
A man is a god. And like god, capricious to the extreme. Merciful and vengeful. Carrying and aloof.
Yet majestic, even when pitiful.

About Bogumil P-G

publisher, essayist, poet lived (and born) in Poland, later England, Italy, presently in Canada
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