Slicing snow trail fresh,

through keen air

we shushed ahead.

She and I,

in deep night,

all else abed.

Light gray above,

White gray below,

trees winter dead.

We shushed ahead.

Then stopped.

Silence.

We looked around.

Snowflake clusters,

in moon glow,

sifting down.

Then heard

snow meet snow

upon the ground.

Heard? That cannot be so!

Yet so it seemed,

at twenty below,

though none else out

to say ’twas so,

those flowing ages

and ages ago.

Cold, she and I listened still.

Colder, we shushed back

(almost against our will)

leaving this memory

with me still,

a snow sound memory

with me still.

© 2023 P. A. Ritzer

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