for Stefanie C.
I love the sound of snowfall in the woodland—
the soft hush-hush of a thousand voices
coming to the end of a whisper.
Reverence falling, a brief glimpse of prophecy—
a sliver of Heaven's half-hour silence
and the slow swish of robe arms
as seven raise trumpets to sanctified lips.
In the slow wash of white on world,
the air is tinged with wonder
and the aftertaste of terror.
It's the sound of all the babies
sighing in milk-filled slumber.
It's the sound of a single assassin,
stealth ruined by the lush crackle of a high-pile carpet.
It's the sound of millions of eyelashes,
flittering closed in invitation.
It's the sound of thought,
when thought has stretched itself thin to plumb the depth
and may not be strong enough to carry forth
treasures long lost in the turgid well.
I love the sound of snow falling.
It's the tranquil tremor of the world.