Listen to the Prayers of Snow
Snow sifts down in ashen splendor,
Coating lifeless grass,
Warming its pensive dormancy.
In spring, even the daffodils
Bow their heads to this majesty
As snow descends on early gardens
Eager for fruition.
The sound of snow is holy.
Old bark listens to the lilting chants
Of processions on drifting banks.
Laughter resounds as accolades, and
Sleds leave trails to be filled for new pilgrims.
The requiems of cardinals trumpet on brittle limbs
Hanging tenuously in blizzards.
Squirrels forage in frozen soil under white sky, for
The sun has its own prophesy in ice.
Mountains sleep, awakened only by the treading
Of tired hikers looking for sanctuary.
It’s at this time that pines stand as preachers since
Creeks are too frozen for parables.
I have my hearth by the fire
And my window opening to this temple,
Bringing me inside myself
To listen to the prayers of snow.
Copyright© 2017/12/30 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com
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