Though the snow seems to fall in quietness
it is not quite so:
The foot-padding snow squeals
and crunches as it is crushed under-foot,
each individual, exquisite flake pressed down -
clean, virgin, pure?
They die with a gasp and are not loud,
but have their say in whispers;
for the white of a snowfall is twinned with the dark,
its frost with the twinkling of stars,
black and silver deep,
blue shadows pooled in white.
There are no secrets in the snow;
even the slightest movement is known,
written,
powdered, easily upset
but layered in protection
as the soft, downy under-feather of angels
smooth over pitfalls.
Such is the face of God
where we proceed by faith
and trust we may not fall,
though if we do,
what is preserved will emerge in the spring
to resolve the puzzle of what became of us.

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