Poetry

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SNOWFLAKE II
By Margie Hord

The night
is a flurry of white
of glory from heaven.

Expectant
I venture out
to delight
in snowstars falling
(Stars
that cling to me
and melt
with a mere whisper).

No fellow shepherds
join my revery
as pilgrim steps
lead
to a snowy
church-lit
Nativity.

Is God’s glory
sought
by so few?
I doubt
that even a shout
of joy would do
to waken
the world
to wonder.

How silently
how silently
the wondrous Gift
is given.

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