Snow

The snow is silent.
Beyond my window, the world stretches out
In white – a landscape that no one
Has touched.
And in the night,
There is a peace
Of the quiet that muffles all awe
An unfurling veil of pale mist and shadow
Like a soft carpet of smoke unfurling into the distance
Meandering the trees,
And the world is half-buried beneath it.
And all is eerily still.
The wind moves nothing as if
Careful
That even the slightest breath
Might disturb the downy calm that settled
Or perhaps swirl the drifting snowflakes
In their slow spiraling fall, gently
From a cloudless sky.
My garden is painted white
A porcelain orchard of branches and trees
Leaves frosted like pale bells
That seem to want to tinkle like glass
If any whisper could stir them at all
From their frozen arrangement.

If I could wander without reserve
The solace of this un-treaded world
Where not a footstep
Dares to leave its mark
Not a sound can trouble
It’s silence.
As elsewhere, people snuggle inside
in the warmth,
Leaving this wintery
Wonderland
For me.
Here I might belong.