A FLAKE OF ICE CALLED SNOW

I wished this poem would become
a flake of ice called snow—
one trembling shard of heaven,
pure enough to vanish on a warm palm,
yet brave enough to fall.

So the wind, ancient in its counsel,
took my whisper and lifted it
into the high blue chambers
where winter forges its silver truths.

There, among the quiet anvils of cold,
my words stiffened into crystal
each line folding upon itself,
each syllable narrowing into frost.

By dusk it was ready.
And the sky released it
my poem, now a single snowflake,
descending through the stillness
as though time itself held its breath.

The village did not notice.
Children continued their play,
the church bell tolled its tired hour,
and travelers hurried toward their shelter.

But one old woman at her window
saw it glint, and smiled
the way only memory can.

She held out her hand.
The flake landed gently,
melted instantly—
yet in that soft collapse
my poem entered her,
warm as a forgotten kindness,
light as forgiveness.

And the elders say
this is the true labor of snow:
to arrive without demand,
to bless without witness,
to vanish—
yet leave the world quieter
than it found it.

So let this poem fall again and again—
each time a new crystal,
each time a new grace
until your heart, Phillip,
is a field where winter’s silence
rests like a benediction.

:: 12.07.2025 ::