Who's There?

In winter you do not hear voices.
You can not hear anyone
as clearly
as crisp
as in the brilliant dark of summer,
when stranger's conversations amble
past your front yard,
saunter through any open bedroom window.
Snow and ice muffle sound.
Prayers blow on wind gusts.
Wishes for warm beds, dry gloves, drift
up to your shuttered sills, ride on.
In winter you do not hear voices
but in the cool white silence
you may sense soft murmurs,
strangled sighs,
strings
of
songs
unsung.
Then you know
you are in the presence of angels.