Snow does not shout, it does not call,
It drifts in silence, soft and small.
It lays itself on branch and stone,
A whisper wrapped in winter’s tone.

The world turns still, the streets grow white,
The wind slows down, the air turns light.
And in this hush, in frozen air,
A quiet peace is resting there.

No words are needed, none are said,
The snow speaks soft where footsteps tread.
It asks for nothing, yet it stays,
A fleeting gift of winter’s days.