arms outspread -arching backwards-
trying to catch hold of stars and snowflakes.
Landing hard, leaving my mark on the freshly fallen snow
that hushes and tucks in the world with a soft white blanket.
Even the wind is silent tonight,
everything listening to an unheard lullaby.
With other dancers, stiff-shoed and gauzy-skirted,
my body has followed the orchestra’s command,
portraying under the warm lights of the stage
a chorus of snowflakes in a much-rehearsed ballet.
But tonight the cold is real, I dance with frozen feet, straining
for knowledge of this silent song.
This snowy world is not warm.
It speaks of some Being beyond all human thought,
great and terrible, but the very soul of Love.
Why else would the snow come
each snowflake perfectly unique and exquisitely beautiful
despite its short life, melting as soon as it touches warmth?
A reminder that some perfect and pure thing
must be a covering for the naked ugliness of earth
when all other coverings have been stripped away
by chill autumn winds.
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