Snow

Sunrise. Silence. How snow comes falling over the known world
covering all sound. I feel that childhood wonder stirring.
The pure exhilaration of witnessing the miracle of snow
that comes in the night. We wake up in our warm bed
a small world of its own. Pillows and blankets pushed
into a soft fortress against the unknown vagaries of the night.
We survived. We look out then. Step with that tenuous
reaching into the cool air. Barefoot across the boards.
Press against the glass and there it is. The frozen pond.
Familiar boulders statues and walkways all white.
Branches lace-like and delicate where there were once
leaves. We saw them fall. Kicked them into the air.
Smelled the neighbor's smoke. Now this. A quietude.
Evergreen boughs heavy and flocked with the pure essence.

Back inside. They're still asleep. As if the snow
had entered the house and muffled the usual stirrings.
What to do? Back into the cave. The fortress warm still
that held my form all night. There on the wall
the earliest stories. Creatures like deer horse dog fill
the margins but the center lights up with good deeds
rescue attempts and the everlasting battle against evil.
The bow so trusty points its arrow directly at the heart
of the sinister dark lord who seems oblivious...who seems
to be dancing and applauding as if my one mistake
were to believe I could do anything to stop the death
and destruction. I quietly abandon warmth
and race to the window. Was that a dream too?

But there all around—the pure land right where I left it.
Miracle of miracles. Pressing both hands
against the glass now. My face sidelong pressed to ice
it seems to see further to understand more
of what's there beyond the light. And there it is.
Blue sky. Cloudless above all this. And the gods
with their thick glasses surveying the scene.
And that's when I learn how it takes fire to make snow.
How it takes ice to unlock the heart.
I look for strings. Surely those two faces
the darker one frowning surely
they will pluck the lines and bring the day alive
bring buses planes and trains into this scene
the postman the bus driver the cacophony
of everyday life that will most certainly
melt this perfection till it flows back
into the ocean of dreams.