Rain—a pack of puppies scrabbling across the roof.
Snow so silent
you can almost hear
Crystal brushes crystal,
the tiniest, purest vibration,
each molecule a perfect bell:
trillions of perfect bells
of every conceivable pitch.
Your nose can hear them
better than your ears.
Breathe carefully, slowly.
The cold dry air sings with
this dry cold form of wetness—
how can this be water?
Nor is it until a perfect crystal,
falling, touches down
on your cheek and becomes
(before its ferny, feathery lacy
symmetry can be admired)
a simple shapeless spot
of wet, not yet a droplet.
It is the warmth and color
of your cheek does the trick.
You are the magic that makes
melt of snow, and yet more magical,
you, even without seeing, just
letting the freshness tickle
your inner nostrils, you are
the instant admirer (I lied before)
of every detail of every crystalline
fantasy, the hearer of every inaudible
Am I (are we) imagining this infinitesimally tiny
chaos of bells, chaos of symmetries in
harmonic vibration? But the snow moves,
so must make sound! Faeries are crude, giggling
summer creatures. What we are hearing
(when we hear no sound at all)
must be angelic, these perfect bells,
by Dean Blehert
copyright (c) 2012. All Rights Reserved