Silence falls
like winter snow
Cleanse the air
of clutter
Fallen angels
mark the way
barely flutter

Trees not stark,
but frosted white
Pointing skyward,
Your retreat
is from my gaze
Snowflakes gently

Dancing, twirling
drift away
Frozen laughter
Round the hill
and gone again
Poem left in tatters


This is not a poem. I know it’s not, because I once took a poetry class — the only one in my life — and the instructor told me it wasn’t a poem. Instead, it was an exercise, incomplete, insufficient. Not one to doubt myself based on the words of another, I decided, instead, that her class was insufficient — not a poetry class, but merely an exercise.

I didn’t return. I still like the poem. It’s empty, like a shattered heart in the icy cold. Sort of the point, I think.

Believe in you. If others don’t, get different others.


  1. Mary Quallo says:

    Bill, whatever this is, it is beautiful and perfect. After watching 6-8 inches of snow falling today, the timing of this post was perfect. It put into words what i felt today. I didn’t have the words so I am grateful that you did. Keep writing, I’m still reading. Mary

    1. Wow, Mary, thanks so much for the kind words. In truth, the teacher hurt my feelings, because I really like her work and this poem. But she’s a city girl; maybe she’s never been in the country in the snow.

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