White

The world wears a white gown,

Soft and silent as she moves

The heart and soul of any 

Who oft gaze upon her

Subtle brilliance. 

Branches bow

beneath powdered brevity,

While the lake flaunts its thin veil of ice.

The world seems asleep, dead

quiet in her slumber.

Occasionally, a sound pierces the silence,

From little birds that still chirp and sing,

As if they didn’t get the memo

That spring is on holiday. 

Even winter cannot silence them,

While all others seem to hold their breath. 

Snow flakes fall, 

Like floating whispers,

weightless confessions

from a sky, heavy with cloud.

Each flake, unique,

but indistinguishable as they land—

Accumulating into an ambiguous smear,

Softening former distinctions,

And blurring the edges

Of a once remarkable landscape. 

Of a still remarkable landscape.

Though there is a blanket everywhere, 

It does nothing to warm me 

Against the cold cut of an angry

And unyielding flurry

Swept across the frozen lake.  

It hurts;

all so achingly beautiful,

Yet I barely register the bite, 

As my attention is absorbed

In the irradiant beauty

of innumerable individuals

coming together 

in dazzling unison.

Magnificent.

Beauty found not in singularity,

but in the tapestry they weave,

together. 

The trees no longer boast

Their differences—

Oak, birch, pine, spruce—

Now stand united,

Draped in the same silken robe;

All singing a chorus of quietude,

Without need of a solo. 

A world made whole—

not by contrast,

but by communion.