The Sound of Snow

I am longing for a storm with howling wind, heavy snow, and a reboot for the system. It blows away gloominess, covers up establishment, and buries old stories. I am longing for snow brought by storm, still quiet, serene, pretty — yet ruthless, ruthless with all my words, frozen and dropped into the snow drift without forming an opinion. The snow eats up sounds to feed its holiness.

I am longing for fluffy sounds hushed by hibernating grounds. Space between each footstep grows quieter with every accumulation. Space between each thought blooms into new rooms of the mind, as snow silences in kind. Snow sounds like imaginations and associations of time. That sudden stoppage, where the world steps back and lets the individual come to life. The purity and essence of the falling landscape simplifies thoughts out of knots. The imprint of a fallen branch now removed as memories of a previous life. Its absence a presence in the heart. Like the mind expanding over untouched snow, consciousness flakes into silence. The body warm and padded in layers and such, the whole world soft and light to the touch. Sitting here still, dropping in deeper, pausing at the end of exhale, I remember snow angles at dawn, and the sun as my teacher.

These rituals of snowdrops, snowcones, and snowballs coalesced for this time of mirth, this season for the seeds of rebirth. I miss the sound of snow, as we sit on the edge of what is reaped from the sowed. These warm winter nights reminding of future frights. May we move with snow’s grace, returning our consciousness and nature to space. Like snowing, falling quietude, surrendering to the melt and being felt.