Angels let their feathers fall
And cloak the land below;
This finite splendor won’t last long,
Yet I’ll be rejoicing as I go.

A thousand years are not enough
To see every snow that falls;
A thousand years are far too few
For each exquisite storm to pall.

I walk alone at twilight,
Between two worlds’ skies,
Summer left and winter right,
And I smile as the white snow flies.

As winter settles upon the land,
Drowning summer’s revelry,
I lift my face to grim-grey clouds,
Your fragile eternity.

The clouds turn capricious
As the storm wind whistles by,
And I pray for gales of snow,
Like angel-feathers from the sky.

Silence in the snowy wood,
And silence in the fields;
Your silence rests in blankets thick
To which this rushing world yields.

The moon upon your deep, still drifts
Turns the land to silver fire.
Diamonds cannot rival this,
Nor can the stars’ cold-hearted ire.

Stardust pales before you,
As does the frost-kissed pine;
Your midnight snow is incandescent,
A sight I hold as solely mine.

Angels let their feathers fall
And cloak the land below;
Cold and white, soft and bright,
This fragile, fleeting snow.