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Waking to Snow
If you listen,
the morning talks to you
through its white silence.
There is a depth here that falls away
into prayer, a stillness that seems
to veneer an even deeper still.
My footprints sink into the fresh snow
and mark it with a kind of sacrilege,
scoring a pristine glaze with
a clumsy presence.
All this undisturbed loveliness
is already beginning to melt.
I stand and feast
on the moment taking in
as much as I can. By this afternoon,
the snow will be gone.
I am learning to find joy
by letting go.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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