Winter Evening
The stillness
of snow and trees
does not pass.
It is taken in
by earth, and held
like breath.
Gradually it drifts
up, is caught
in the voices of stars.
Silence gathers, too,
in us, is kept
in us
as in the hollow
of an inverted cup.
It falls like soft rain
on thought,
nurtures
thought's seeds.
It carries us
to image
and memory, sets
language free.