It was one of those beautiful winter days. You know, the ones where the temperature is finally high enough that your nose doesn’t freeze the moment it ventures beyond the cozy warmth of your home and all around fat snowflakes are silently drifting down, covering everything around you in a blanket of white.

It was a day like this when I found the most perfect snowflake I have ever seen.

As I strolled through the snow, enjoying the falling snow, I saw it drift down and land on my sleeve. It was the most beautiful of all the snowflakes that day. Perfectly balanced and intricately designed, it perched there for a moment while I gazed upon it. And then, it melted.

The fragile beauty of this perfect snowflake could not exist in the warmth of my sleeve. Nor would it have survived had it joined the other snowflakes that reached the ground, for even in it’s perfection, it was imperfect. Its intricate shape would have been lost, compressed by the blanket of snow still falling.

For one moment in time, I looked upon perfection and found it to be perfectly imperfect.

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