On this, one of the last days of the year, you have wandered deep into the forest, on a pathway leading away from the houses, away from the streets, and into the silence of a forest meadow.
The only trace of civilization in sight is one corner of a pioneer log cabin, fallen to ruin in the over one hundred years that have passed since someone lived there last.
No footprints enter this place but yours, and you realize that you can’t hear any sounds but your own quiet breath, and the gurgle of a small stream that crosses the clearing.
Soft mounds of freshly fallen snow hide the edges of the water, and you take a few steps closer to see. And as you pause for a moment, to see the dark water rushing between the silvery frost, you feel the hush of perfect quiet, as snowflakes start falling slowly, from the silver sky above.
Turn your face up, and you will feel the tingle of the snowflakes as they descend to kiss your face. And perhaps in this moment you’ll remember that time when you used to be a child, and you would whirl, joyful and giddy in the snow, and stick out your tongue to catch the snowflakes as they fell.
And even after your return from the woods, you sometimes still find yourself remembering that timeless, perfect moment, as you see slow flakes falling.
Story, Lyrics & Music © 2016 Britta Curkovic