THE MAIDEN

My daughters were raised in
Snow
Cold-chalk, lilly-ice, drifting to cover the windows, sifting
The woods full until the twenty-foot Aspens looked like
Bare bushes
Pale bleached bones on alabaster
white on white
They played on top of fifteen feet of diamonds and pearls
Crust frozen to hold their slight weight
Angels on eggshells
Their voices ringing singular notes
piccolo, flute
In a vast symphony of silence

My daughters were raised in the silence of
Snow
They learned the world muffled, hushed, wordless and white without
Laughing with color, bright with thought, warm
with the crackle of wood fire within

They have grown to be
Thoughtful, colorful, warm and laughing women
Who step easily into
Silence
Whose beautiful eyes
aqua, ebony
Fully understand the sound of
White

©Edwina Peterson Cross