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Poetry By
Catherine Knutsson
The Soft Fall of Snow
On days when the soft fall of snow
Has choked all sound from the world
And the rumble of time is our pulse,
How can we not turn inwards and listen
To the beat of the constant, ineffable
Movement under our feet, in our hands,
In the waters of our soul?
And when the snow melts,
Drop by drop, seeping with silt
And vapor to return to the reservoirs of time,
Does it wonder why it melds
With the essence of human creation,
The by-products of worldly beings
That do not listen,
Swirling masses of pure and foul
To taint the very core of life?
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