In the City, a Snowfall

In the city, a snowfall
is sometimes the only thing
that can teach us silence. The rush
 
of cars and busses disappears.
Footfalls, crow calls, the buzz
of streetlamps gone, quiet. Even
winter-hardened chickadees huddle,
beaks to breast as sunlight breaks.
 
A finger of luminous umber
stretches across the eastern skyline,
pointing you to your heart. You glance
left and right, no, it is for you. You clap
your mitts to dispel the unerving quiet.
 
Then your breathing comes to focus,
filling you with a sudden awareness  
of yourself and a life-giving God
on the brink of a vast, wordless world
hanging by a thread of grace.
 
In the city, a snowfall
is sometimes the only thing
that teaches you silence
is not absence but a presence.