the small still life of snowflakes and pears

fat wet snowflakes dawdle down from the planet's heavenly rooftop as if taking their time, stalling, delaying their inevitable earthly fate—contact with the ground—where each flake will one day melt, evaporate, disappear.

it is both true and false that every snowflake is unique—true for the large complex crystals composed of a multitude of molecules stacked and connected in all directions—snap, click like so many invisible lego bricks—and occasionally false for the small, simple snowflakes which may, on occasion, boast an identical twin.

as for the totality of snowflakes which have fallen to earth over eons of time—what an unfathomable, unknowable number!—amazingly, no two large ones could ever—ever—have been identical—the number of molecule combinations borders on the infinite, making duplication almost an impossibility.

and as for a display of pears in a bowl near a sunny window in winter, the discussion comes down to this: these piled up fruit lean in like eager, big-bellied, pear-shaped women bearing irresistible secrets and about-to-fall-off-the-tip-of-the-tongue gossip; hear them? they seem to be saying do tell.

the dots, lines and bumps that light up the patterns on their lush flesh, the rise and fall of shadows within the warm clefts of their skin—one-of-a-kind.

do you see? snowflakes all over again.