If this were the beginning of a poem, he would have called the thing he felt inside him the silence of snow.Orhan Pamuk – Snow
I didn’t grow up with snow. To visit snow was a good few hours’ journey and, even then, it was to the ski fields, and only for a brief few months of the year.
Since that time I have traveled and lived in places where snow fell in all manner of ways. However, it has never felt like it did today.
Today, the only sound behind the silence was that of the tinkle of falling snow. Today, the shadows of snowflakes in golden streetlight fluttered playfully on the powder below. Today, the village slept. Today, the air tasted of mint and pomegranate.
Today, all of today, a poem lived.
I wonder who else felt it?