Children are like falling snow.
A whisper on the wind brings
Small cold fingers on your face.
Then the next thing you know,
Everything is utterly covered up and walking is difficult.
You clean the children off the paths,
Sweep them from the back stairs,
Watch snow plows push them into place.
Still they keep coming
Three different endings! (pick one, or write your own!):
Until your heart melts.
"Go outside! Mama is trying to read!"
Snowflakes—beautiful, magical, yet deadly.