Winter

The black arms raised

to the sky

have collected

during the slow nightfall of snow

a finger's depth of white

which they offer in silence

to the sun,

who responds with his usual warmth.

His golden illumination

edges the unbroken

piles of white

tendered by the black branches

of every winter tree.

 

And if you lie in the snow,

as angels do,

you will see above you

black spiraling limbs

and between, around, and through them

the blessed light

creating soundless hymns.

 

Profound sound is obliterated

by the sacred silence

of sun and snow

but particularly the latter

whose white material muffles all

except the breathy pigeon-purr

of boots walking on heavy

soft

new

snow.

 

 

Copyright 2009 Ann Tudor   

www.anntudor.ca
http://scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com