The Sound Snow Makes Poem by Sonny Rainshine

Sometimes on those days
in February just before the snow lets go
and the air gets as dark as black lace,
as dark as possible
without succumbing to complete obscurity,
it feels as if the sun is gone for good,
scurried off to another planetary system,
leaving this one enshrouded
in a cowl
of quiet velvet.

Then, when flakes at last begin to descend,
like eiderdown,
it seems as though the drooping clouds
were slit through, as a ripped pillow;
and though the falling of the snow is exquisitely silent,
the sound of a quick, distant whisper
is unmistakable.