I studied a snowflake until I knew its every nook and cranny, every bump and divot, every point and every void until I could see that snowflake with eyes closed tight. I examined the trace elements held within the water molecules that composed it. I weighed it, measured it, took its temperature and even photographed it.
I became an expert on the snowflake, writing essays and theses, and even books. I traveled the globe presenting lectures to packed houses.
I was world-renowned for my wisdom and insight into my snowflake until I came to the conclusion that no-one could know more about the snowflake than I.
Until one day, a child presented me with another snowflake and told me, “Look!”
I scoffed at the child and said, “I have studied my snowflake for more years than you have been alive. Of what benefit could there be for me to look at your snowflake?”
The child simply held out his snowflake and again said, “Look!”
With haughty superiority, I took his flake, knowing exactly what I would see, but to my surprise, I looked at a structure that held almost no resemblance to what I thought a snowflake should be.
Then, with the child by my side, I looked around where we stood and beheld a million billion flakes of snow covering the countryside, and I wept, because I finally realized how little I know.
On March 2nd, at dVerse, we were invited by host Frank Hubeny to write prose poetry. Alas, at the time, inspiration did not come to me. Therefore, I will be sharing this at dVerse for Open Link Night instead…and thanks, Frank, for the prompt (even if I am responding a bit late!)