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Poem

The clamor of an ordered life;
The ticking of a clock—
The babble of ambition;
The clatter of the day.
So for the sake of quietude
Traveled I alone, and far...

Spent I a winter’s night in the woods
To hear the fall of snow...
Though I heard instead the whispering wind—
It was soothing in its way.

And the pines, they touched the heavens,
As I beheld each weighty bough...
Caked with snow, and drooping
As they swayed to every blow!

The winter wood was oddly still...
Almost lifeless in its way—
Still, like foxes napping,
The repose I hoped to find.

The biting chill made numb my face
And made of every breath, a cloud.

Above was utter blackness,
Save the pinpricks of a billion stars, shimmering.
Yet the moonlight turned the banks
Of snow to blue diamonds,
And I could not look away!

Then fell more feather-flakes of snow 
Uncertain in their course.

And in the distance was a cabin
Through the windows came a lambent glow—
It seemed welcoming, and warm.

Quickly turned my mind to holidays 
As the red-orange embers danced about 
The chimney into threads of smoke—
Skyward into the spangled blackness—till gone.

The rolling hills were a tablecloth of white,
As I reveled in the reticence;
The placidity, hush and ease.

Now and then was I awakened—
Or my senses, if you will...
By the aimless fall of pine cones 
About each drift of downy hill.

Too far away the cabin,
So I kept my place in the frosted wood,
As peaceful as a child’s prayer—
And I was disinclined to leave.

And were I warm, I may have stayed,
Though I will never know—

Delighted as I listened 
To the soundless sweep of snow!

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