Falling snow


Flakes of snow are quietly falling from the sky

in a gentle dance for the eyes

they noiselessly cover the soil

shrouding the landscape in a velvety silence


They slow and accelerate and slow

in their swirling patterns, going forward and backward and forward

as though undecided on the direction to go

the place to gratify of their visit or their presence

a bough, a fir needle, a balcony


You look out of the window at the whitening landscape

you rejoice  at how the flakes are heavier and faster

and the child dwelling in you reawakens

All the magic that had been erased from the world reappears

this tree you see each day from the window has more to itself than it seemed

his boughs are covered with cushions of whiteness

and they seem to hide a world of their own

The fir tree nearby reminisce of Christmas times

suddenly you’re not anymore part of a large globalized world with no secret life

suddenly you’re small again in your little neighborhood and your world stops with your sight

with the roofs and the trees crowned in white at a hundred yards

You imagine the warmth of the life going on a Sunday morning

the children playing and the parents laughing a sipping a tea close to them in the attic room

holding hands and looking too at the falling snow, from time to time

You remember the security and the warmth of being surrounded by the quieting presence of your parents

of sensing this love flowing between them and engulfing you

You remember timeless days that passed slowly where you could play as much as your heart desired

and your games still bore their true, primary meaning making you dream in their world of fae

and later you’d be called for lunch and you’d be served a warm soup with fresh bread to warm your stomach and your heart

happily listening to your parents chatter


You’d visit your grandparents too in their large garden with trees and ponds covered in white in the countryside

and you’d sit on the couch that seemed timeless close to them and the chimney fire

that gaily crackled and produced its own flakes of smoke and embers

you sat there content to be surrounded by all this warmth and dryness and love

content of growing in this bubble of safety where your magic could unravel

entirely faithful in life



“The chimney” is a very old drawing of mine