Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius.
—Pietro Aretino
The sky, tired of light, has given everything to the snow.
—Robert Walser

A great white whirl descends
and the world grows quiet,
each echo dampened,
each edge softened
beneath this solemn veil.

Here is a holy erasure
for a world grown too dark,
too bruised, too bitter,
as though God reached
for His salt shaker
and seasoned the great green earth
with mercy.

A flood in a different form,
a world begun anew.
As though hate could be frozen out.
And grime made clean.

Tufted on the mailbox,
nestled in the eaves,
like shearings of some celestial lamb
scattered by a generous hand—
the snow shrouds all things
in its hush.

It is a small impossibility—
a quiet mystery:
boughs made heavy,
moods made light.
Cold to the touch,
warm to the soul.

A tender burial
of everything ordinary,
a resurrection in white.

And we stand at frosted windows,
breath blooming on glass,
watching it transform the world
into what we always knew it could be:
pure,
soft,
still.

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Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.

If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share in a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on X.

With sincere gratitude,

Tom

White Noise

Soliloquy on Snowfall