Snowdrops 2

There are no degrees of beauty, no gradations, only what’s pure and true.

Like Plato’s ideals, reaching down into the infnite within us, or maybe beauty comes from deep inside and spreads out into the world—perhaps it is a combination of both, but I really don’t know.

When you’re alone and suddenly come across snowdrops in the feld or wood, no matter under sun or cloud, they brighten the day and disposition.

A long, long, time ago, my grandmother took me gently by the hand to look out a window, sometimes she led me outside under the brightest moon, to tell me snowdrops appeared were the light of stars had kissed the earth at night. And sometimes they appeared with winter’s last snowfakes, from under a bed of snow, to let us know it’s spring. She told me to remember, so that I would always know what’s true.

Stephen Cipot Garden City Park