I. Love. Snow.

It's one of the few things I find that stirs my inner poet. The poet that gets to sleep the rest of the year.

Come Winter, the soft flakes are its "true love's kiss." It wakes like a child on Christmas morning, giddy with anticipation, bursting with life and an energetic rush that few other of the few things I've experienced can rival.

I was standing in the conference room at the window, hands on the sash, just staring at it coming down. It's so be-yoo-tee-ful.

And then I almost got ran over on my walk home by some crazy who can't brake in it, and the inner poet wet herself.