A weird thought about snow

Snow is beautiful. That is obvious. No matter how cold or how windy or how lonely a night feels, snow makes the ground sparkle and the sky speckle and everything glisten and glean. A white blanket stitched together from millions of tiny flakes of art, its colorlessness makes everything look weightless. It begs to be played with, tossed around, and at the same time admired from afar, careful not to track dirt into its purity. Snow is beautiful. There is no denying that.

But, the more I think about snow, the more I think about what lies underneath. In the morning, when my dad wakes up, he will likely mention how beautiful the park looks after tonight's snowfall. I will probably agree and nod along. But what are we actually saying? The park will be no different. Below a million flakes of white will still sit the same muddy grass-patches and the same unpolished swing-set. The park will look white to us, but it is not. The park will be covered in white. The park will have gotten no more beautiful simply because it snowed tonight because, the park isn't beautiful, the snow is beautiful.

So, I wonder, how am I to judge anything or anyone's sense of beauty or goodness from simply what I know. A person may look good to me, but it is likely that said person is blanketed in socially-demanded habits.

How can I (or anyone) tell where the snow ends and where the park begins? Is it okay to judge something on how much snow it is covered in? After all, when spring comes around, won't the park covered in 10 feet of snow look messier than the one covered in 10 inches?