The snow in its gloaming has been heaping
field and highway with deep, white silence.
The pine, fir, hemlock are draped in ermine,
the poorest twigs ridged in deepest pearl.
From the shed’s roof a rooster crows and
stiff rails now down, flutter to the ground.
The silent father listens to the noiseless work
of beating snow birds whirling by.
He thinks of sweet Auburn’s little mound,
the flakes folding gently on her bit of woods.
In his mind he heard her ask
“Daddy, who makes it snow?”
From the leaden sky more snow falls,
heaping high his greatest sorrow.
He remembered the flake by flake,
gradual patience of her existence,
then whispers to the wind—
“The merciful father makes it fall.”
He’s happy as the snow kisses his blind eyes,
and folds under all the other deepening whiteness…
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