Poetry by Paul Iannucilli


There is something to be said
About snow gathered on branches
When the cold quietly creeps inside
And the world around you is frozen
The way that it catches sunlight
The old and weary shall sit inside
Around their hearths and tables
And tell the stories of spring
And remember how the hawks glided
Upon the summer winds, seeking
Outside, in the air, snow falls
And the world is quiet
With a sound so large it creeps inside of you
And makes its resting place
Inside of your bones
It is a stillness so encompassing
That the merest sound
A breath, the wind speaking through
The barren, laden branches
Is a gunshot, breaking the spell
Of countless eons of dreams
It is in these times
Wrapped in cold and a falling snow
When you can hear the pulse of everything
Beating and thumping all around you
Inside of your heart and your mind
Pounding and aching through the pulse
Of your blood and skin
When you can look at the leaden sky
Gently weeping its burden of white
That settles on the ground
In which to erase all of the color
That you had known before
But there is yet breath here
And there are yet colors
Waiting beneath the wet blanket
To spring again when the air is right
The chill wind has its voice still
Wanting to share the secrets of its birth
And if you are able to refuse
The quaint comforts of a warm hearth
And withstand its icy grasp for a time
If you can fall into
The silent pit of stillness
For a time
And let the snow fall upon your jacket
To gather there in its coldness
Then you can hear the voice of life
That gently whispers to us all