Snow

The true beauty of snow,
Is its silence,
Which slips,
softly,
Betwixt gaps,
Of sky and cloud,
Feathering and fluttering,
With furious flakes,
And powerful powder shakes,
Countless in their complexity,
Biting on the groaning wind,
Until the streets that used to bustle,
Are still,
And empty,
Transforming their brute utility,
Into a sacred unity,
Where traffic becalmed, surrenders.

Only when cars and trains refrain,
From haste and chase,
Of timetables and appointments,
And the way ahead abates,
Into a myriad abandoned journeys,
Do we take the time to see,
What truly matters most to us,
Home and hearth,
And the other half,
Who awaits with warming arms,
The wanderer who returns,
White as winters heart,
And the fragile sunlight that slants,
In moments of warm lucidity,
That arrive as an epiphany,
Through the bars of empty buildings,
As strangers drift and dance,
Slipping home on unfamiliar paths.