Slicing snow trail fresh,
through keen air
we shushed ahead.
She and I,
in deep night,
all else abed.
Light gray above,
White gray below,
trees winter dead.
We shushed ahead.
Then stopped.
Silence.
We looked around.
Snowflake clusters,
in moon glow,
sifting down.
Then heard
snow meet snow
upon the ground.
Heard? That cannot be so!
Yet so it seemed,
at twenty below,
though none else out
to say ’twas so,
those flowing ages
and ages ago.
Cold, she and I listened still.
Colder, we shushed back
(almost against our will)
leaving this memory
with me still,
a snow sound memory
with me still.
© 2023 P. A. Ritzer
Thank you for reading P. A. Ritzer. This post is public so feel free to share it.
Thanks for reading P. A. Ritzer! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
