Snow

I am thinking about the vocation
of snow, the cold laundry attendant
tasked with bleaching creation
how the small fingered snowflakes
knuckle into rolling white blankets
as if to make whole the land we have 
gouged with our machines as if
to silence our bee-voices
and dull the daggered corners.
to think one might press an ear
to the frigid window and hear
a voice, like static at first, subtle 
as the footfall of millipedes 
then after hours of listening
making sense at last of the sky
singing softly to each flake the 
secrets of falling without screaming
of landing without a sound as 
if having been and always
belonged right there.
​