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Snow Song
As snow falls upon moonlit shadows,
I dance through dreams...
stepping softly
into the quiet repose
of a still and whispered soul,
while the elegance of a distant star bends gracefully,
gathering me into the song
of my own spirit;
a spirit whose music lay unsung, untouched,
hidden behind anonymous eyes
and left, silently abandoned,
long ago.
Hushed by the steadfast pace of survival,
it is a spirit with a child’s voice;
a voice perhaps,
more familiar than my own.
One which speaks
through the wisdom of watching;
one which has waited,
as lucid stillness often does,
for tomorrow’s harsh complexity to turn back
and rediscover yesterday’s simple joy.
A yesterday which reaches for me now,
as if it were a faraway song drawing me near,
calling me into its young, unburdened refrain.
Awakened
by its own mysterious rhythm,
it is a song filled with gentle curiosity...
a song which beckons
with arms like willow branches,
seemingly fragile,
but stronger made by the seasons of the wind.
A masterpiece of divine knowingness,
hallowed by the moon and clearly seen
as a sinuous silhouette against the pale backdrop
of a steel-blue-evening.
Like a snow song unfolding,
the voice of the child
sings midnight into morning,
lifting her prism solo toward the sky.
Each word
slowly becoming my own mellifluous verse...
each note rising in a crescendo,
arriving crystalline and true,
like new fallen snow
majestically written into the poetry of dawn.
The music of wonder laughs...
sparkling, like diamonds scattered
upon splendid drifts of white,
as if my own song were a perfect gift
held lovingly in a child’s hand.
The child, who has for so long,
waited patiently for me to return...
the child of forgiveness who reaches for me now,
as I lift her from that still and hidden place
and hold her gently in my arms.
She sings for me again,
and I, for her...
we are two voices touching...
the miracle of one melodious note finding another...
a lyric of long-forgotten-light
carried by the echoes of the heart,
moving far beyond the hollow breath of flutes,
sweeping, like a winter’s waltz,
past the shadow of the drum.
We are one spirit dancing,
one poem softly spoken,
as if, together, we are the muse of sacred serenades,
sharing the whispered words of wisdom
found deep within
the silent songs of snow.
—Heather K. O’Hara © 2005 and beyond – All rights reserved.
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