The air is clean, open.
Nothing is so profoundly loud.
Snow is rooted and solid,
and each snowflake placed on purpose.

The quiet whispers through the wind and
there isn’t a sound that speaks as clearly
as the vast emptiness of this winter.

Honest are these snowflakes,
placed on purpose.

It is as if something this solid
is expected to stay, as though
silence will never change.

As though the snowmen will
always laugh.

I hope that what is true
at this moment, will still be
when the sun decides to rise.

Snow will melt, however.
The silence will liquefy,
the solidarity of these purposefully placed moments—
these will fade.

New hopes will appear,
solidify themselves,
only to be spoken,
the cold silence shattered.