Poetry and Snow

In stillness sweet a snowfall sets,
white diamonds falling from the
heavens, like unto a song or
a backwards prayer, coming down
instead of up where prayers go,
the stillness, the cool air,
crisp with a frosty red bitterness
is not a thought, nor an emotion, nor
a moment in time nor an instance of
heart, but it is something else,
a poem, scattered across the lines of
an old newspaper, or the back of
an envelope or even a napkin
(not a used one, of course)
which may have been recycled, or
may have been crafted from
one-hundred percent brand new fiber
And still, as the words of this poetry
continue onward and onward, the
snow falls sweetly, in a cool stillness,
white and soft and wet and cold
and one’s heart begins to feel something,
not exhilarating nor exciting nor novel
but old, ancient, even familiar;
it is a peace, almost a faint joy
invoked by the white snow
falling, falling slowly, in stillness,
white diamonds in
a sea of words.

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