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Not Christmas Eve, not Easter Evensong,

But just a Tuesday near cathedral bells

Come snows as melodies, produce a throng

Of beauties, whisper in their sacred spells

Near shopping center plaza people. They

At first don’t hear the snow through bongs of bronze,

Bass tongues that send out shine-filled notes which splay

Across the white-veil streets, more white than swans

Along the nearby river’s edge.  Then slow

In pace the flakes fill up the elms and yews

Until their limbs are lowered by the snow.

Lumps drop in sounds that musically confuse.

  White makes the sort of snowfall that would sleep

    If only it could cause a song knee-deep.

~ Phillip Whidden