There is silence in the cold morning air.
Snow over red rock, green juniper dusted with sugar.
The world is a frosted wedding cake.

It is the Grand Canyon in winter, our third anniversary,
and the empty parking lot echoes the soft clamp
of our hands, the smash of our lips.

The waitress, with a swift seam and a deft hand, is inobtrusive.
She is a young woman of formal motion and friendly voice who does not exist,
while through the window we watch snow drift like lazy confetti.

And the whole world is here right now,
falling at our feet in small pieces of white perfection.
No two flakes are the same, no two moments together
any less singular for the ones that have gone before.

There is silence in the cold morning air.
Snow cloaks red rock, green juniper is dusted with sugar.
The world is a frosted wedding cake.

Ann Walters