THE SILENCE OF SNOW

The zen master and I opened the front door this morning and discovered that our little corner of world was under a pleasing blanket of fine white powder, notwithstanding the old adage that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.  Actually, I'm quite fond of snow, provided it does its handiwork quickly and then moves on to other venues.  As the environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy has observed, "snow provokes responses that reach back to childhood."  I also love the way that snow dissolves color and forces the eye to appreciate natural shapes and forms that might have otherwise been overlooked.  Finally, I love the silence that comes with snowfall — silence that stills the heart and allows it to listen to different things.

My small offering today is a few photos taken early this morning around my yard and neighborhood, plus a lovely poem by Miguel de Unamuno (translated by Robert Bly).  

                                        THE SNOWFALL IS SO SILENT

                                                  By Miguel de Unamuno

                                                  translated by Robert Bly

                                             The snowfall is so silent,

                                             so slow,

                                             bit by bit, with delicacy

                                             it settles down on the earth

                                             and covers over the fields.

                                             The silent snow comes down

                                             white and weightless;

                                             snowfall makes no noise,

                                             falls as forgetting falls,

                                             flake after flake.

                                             It covers the fields gently

                                             while frost attacks them

                                             with its sudden flashes of white;

                                             covers everything with its pure

                                             and silent covering;

                                             not one thing on the ground

                                             anywhere escapes it.

                                             And wherever it falls it stays,

                                             content and gay,

                                             for snow does not slip off as rain does

                                             but it stays and sinks in.

                                             The flakes are skyflowers,

                                             pale lilies from the clouds,

                                             that wither on earth. 

                                             They come down blossoming

                                             but then so quickly

                                             they are gone;

                                             they bloom only on the peak,

                                             above the mountains,

                                             and make the earth feel heavier

                                             when they die inside.

                                             Snow, delicate snow,

                                             that falls with such lightness

                                             on the head,

                                             on the feelings,

                                             come and cover over the sadness

                                             that lies always in my reason.