The Snow

The Snow

Snow falls quietly at first,

soft flakes drifting like they have nowhere to be,

then faster, heavier, pressing against the ground,

covering the streets and the trees,

making the world slower,

as if it needs to think before it moves.

I watch it from the window,

hands pressed against the glass,

breath fogging the pane,

and the shapes of the houses across the street

are softened, blurred,

as if they are no longer real,

only suggestions of where life exists.

Each step outside is deliberate,

feet sinking into the cold white,

the snow presses against my legs,

coats my boots, melts into wetness,

and I feel it in the quiet,

how it absorbs sound,

makes every motion seem measured,

as if the world is holding its breath.

The wind moves through the falling snow,

it twists and lifts the flakes,

they swirl around the streetlamps,

catching the light in a slow dance,

and I follow them with my eyes,

feeling the pull of their endless motion,

like a tide I cannot reach.

Snow gathers in corners,

piles against doors and fences,

hangs heavy on branches,

and I imagine it waiting,

for no one,

silent, patient, knowing it will stay,

long after we have gone inside.

I want to touch it, taste it, feel its weight,

but it is cold enough to bite,

sharp enough to remind me

that beauty is never gentle for long,

that it demands attention,

even as it blankets the world in white.

And in the hush it leaves behind,

I hear the quiet pulse of life,

the slow, steady heartbeat,

beneath the snow,

and I am part of it,

and it is part of me.