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.

It’s rough. I gulp a breath

before they crash upon my head!

Ten toes touch sand, I push up, up, and out

to break above the swirl. I paddle for I

feel the current drag me back and out—

a rush for spaces wide and blue beyond,

away from tethered tide and timberline,

away from brownish boundaries of beach.

Then looking out I see another wave—

now gaining height, now curling tall, now cresting white.

I gasp for air and squish my eyes—

it crashes in a spray of salty brine.

I sputter, cough, then gag, and vomit lunch,

the salt, this brew, so playful, yet so swill.

Ten toes touch sand, I push up, up, and out.

The current rips from boundaries of the beach

Away from limitations of the shore.

A gulp of oxygen, a spray – more salt

To sand my face. The sun breaks

through, a fearsome blaze to warm this

watery child. Ten toes touch sand.

I push up, up, and out.

Such habits of routine we tout;

We stir and stretch and wander out,

Then make the coffee, find our nook

And settle down to read the Book.

We pray God’s blood all sores assuage,

Then sketch our thoughts on secret page

While sipping slow and soft our drink

That nourishes like ancient ink.

And finally, when the sun has broke

The night’s last grasp on dawning folk

And vibrant crimson streaks the air,

We rise, content that God is there.