I can hear the chink of snow falling
It drops carefully, so tinkling,
a whisper heard more
in intuition’s cochlea than the ear.
I can hear birds singing; in a safe place
beyond the snow, if I listen with care.
Their music threads
between icicles and bursting blossom buds.
I hear the pop of opening cherry flowers,
throwing scent at me, to a fanfare
of sunset vermilion,
echoed by dawn in shades of crimson.
Nesting on cherry boughs: perch white doves,
confettied in pink petals.
I hear their voices soft as snow
promising tomorrow and tomorrow.