Marsha Foss

The sky, a cold medieval blue,
and the lower world is gray.
The day clangs dully on
like broken bells remotely rung,
stiff and discordant.

Then comes the night.
My winter child
so pale
like snow sleeps still.
Dark and quiet my solitude.
Almost loneliness
and yet
the snow is falling silently
and keeping with me.

Hushed,
the barren winter
does not cry piercingly tonight
but whispers of its beauty
intricate patterns branching across the snow
tiny sparkles echoing soft stars.
I listen
in dark and quiet
and hear the winter speaking, hush.