Cloistered

In the silence of a winter night
when even the stars are sleeping,
one imagines the joyful song
of a snowflake on its way from heaven,

or the sound of mist muffled
by the thick white counterpane…
Earth tucked in by a loving hand
and everyone, the laborer and the lazy,

exploring the hinterland of dreams.
No pin dropping, no feather drifting,
so quiet that even a pine needle
makes a thud

as it bumps into the pale glow
of a moonbeam
tracking the scratch
of my pen.

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