The Grain of Silence Beneath the Snow

Under the white mantle, where the world waits in pause,
what is silent is not absence, but a woven law.
Silence holds here the density of ancient flake,
a lump of icy air, a thought too meek to wake.
It bears the gentle wrinkle of the earth at rest,
and every leafy whisper, softly suppressed.

Its breath is neither empty nor cold oblivion’s keep,
but deep listening found, an immobile self held deep.
Each sound imprisoned, each echo fading slow,
forms an ethereal crystal, a gem that starts to glow.
It is the beat of time that no longer knows haste,
the promise of a sprout, yet unexpressed.