Silence descends to the earth with the snow,

quietness stacks up on every bent bough.

Tranquil white peacefulness tenderly fleeces

dirt wrapped in mystery, still snowflakes sift

downward, on downward,

drift, drifting to earth.

Heaven’s pure manna would banish our dearth

of stillness, of hallowed space, emptiness, home places

cluttered by media, Instagram, Tweetia. One’s

soul vibrates chaos, tumult, and mania, and we

wonder where God is, and can He be heard?

The messages beep at us, emojis-they tickle us,

all echo the clanging and banging of I.

The cacophony swallows us, sinks us, and snuffs us

and we lose more than voices, yes, spirit and mind.

Then it snows and the silence that banners the world

is a mantle of rest from the Father unfurled

where the music is tranquil, the harmony soothing,

the choirs bow—worship with angels ensuing. And

echoes of glory resound from the throne while

He’s counting His children, redeeming His own

in a way and a time, we do not understand,

only hurry is not a word coined by God’s hand.

Would He say, quit you children, take moments to play,

to chatter, be wild, ecstatic, then pray.

Sit silent and ponder. Let profundity fill

all your aches and depressions.

Let the quibbler be still.

Enveloped in mystery, in gentle non-urgency

silence descends to the earth with the snow.

Tranquil white peacefulness tenderly fleeces

quietness stacked up on every bent bough.

Dirt wrapped in mystery—still snowflakes sift,

Heaven’s pure manna would banish our dearth

downward, on downward, drift, drifting to earth.