Snowy Night

The snow is falling softly like the breathing of the world, a quietness that softens dimly the edges of houses. It shrouds the fields, although they have no hands and the trees already looking heavy with the uncertainty of the hour, are dusted in quiet shadows. There are hushed voices that seem to breathe their secrets out, delighting in the falling down, as they linger, flowing through each embroidered shroud,** touching and holding every moment close, as every life waits in this fog, amidst the glimmer-and-fade of the world, where the snow is weaving its own quiet path.

• Mary Oliver