Snow was falling – trying
to fall. Merely dust-like beyond glass
splash painted with dried grime of rain.
A futile white wash on a world
grey with fatigue, blue-hued from screens
ever on. Cloud-covered skies, minds
veiled in electricity – a buzz
the only music in ears tuned not to listen to the void.
But outside, a hush, proffered comfort
remnant from a time when there was faith
descends: unseen; ignored.
The snow swells its flakes, blanketing ground no feet
will tread for hours – the people sat indoors,
attention rapt by figures, numbers
on repeat. Money
now is god for souls unused to peace
in a flower, too early bloomed and shivering;
in a feather, on its danced descent
from wings aloft in sky overhead;
in a face, red-cheeked with air fresh and chill
from venturing into that cleansed-for-a-moment scene –
vivid reminder of what joy once was,
when life was conducted in the tangible,
the living real that knows the feel
of crumbs of soil to the touch and fragility
of a petal to a fingernail.
The snow falls on.