A poem by Benjamin M. Saalbach / Walsh

Once, twice, thrice, the knot is quite secure

On Silva's robe; knee-socks on, before the door

Stands, this Silva, not quite sure

What singing syllogism to inscribe

Upon the page; this sage

Goes out to meet this snowy wonder of a night.

Earlier, the flakes came hard

Pressing heavily downwards in their flight

A thousand sifting shapes from out the night

By moon revealed; too cloudy to be starred,

The lovely moon folds sifting flakes in light

And they move on. Travelers, pilgrimming so very far

Silva sees them, falling to the ground

Without the wind, by no sound known.

Without the softest breeze, the still night air

Is brisk, but sleeping fair,

Silva opens sliding door, to outwards go,

To where the gentle snow falls all around

And not the lightest breeze does deem to blow.

A rush mat, posited upon the ground

A crunch on filial snow, that is its sound

Laid down upon the daughters of the sky

To give some warmth for Silva's sock-clad feet

Though with some heat, the rushes even lie

No foe to silvery daughters of the sky.

Silva gazes about. Luster of the woods

A silent sheen of pale before the night

But 'pale' is wrong, for this night stirs

A homely warming place of silent light

No bluster blows, no whirlwind whirs,

Only Silva's home among the firs,

A lovely, dreamy place. Beneath the moon

Silva's cozy hut the cold endures

For without the wind's black malice moan

The night is nice; light and life can thrive here

Bundled under sleepy blanketing of snow

All is right with where this moon has shone.

Silva shifts about, upon the rushy mat

Snow falls, without a care past Silva's walls

In cloudy night the moon alone can shine

This Silva knows by instinct, all is well

The joyful springy sounding of the bells

May come soon; but still, the moon

Exuding such a pleasant radiance fine

That in the night the dark seems not so cold

Throughout the quiet wood, all nature rests

But Silva, though a part of peaceful silvery gold

Grows bold, a question hard to dare express.

"Moonlit night, forest of trees

And snow: I ask you this.

Where is the secret that I seek?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

The night is restful, snowy face

Sifting through the forest's darkful place

Down, beneath benevolent moon

All seems to be at peace within the world.

A vision? Dream? Whatever future furled

Lies before this time, it is unknown.

This Silva nods, the moon has shone

And answer seems elusive, for as yet

Though answer stands, Silva has yet to know

Bowing slightly, Silva turns to go

And stops; Silva inclines the head

And goes, past the sliding, sliding door

Hauling the rush mat in as well.

The doors slid closed, Silva walks

Across the sumptuous carpet to the room 

Where Silva sleeps. What has been learned?

What does Silva know?

Silva's track was ne'er outside the hut

Now snug within, the windows tightly shut

Outside, the indentation left by mat

Is gone beneath a sudden fall of snow.