I have to admit this is the first sestina I've ever written. I'd read a reminder of the basic rules on the boards, then went out skiing for the day, listening to the sound of the snow as it scraped across the skin of my parka or blew against the metal poles or the walls of the liftshack.
I agree with Michael that the meter is not that of snowfall down at a house or in the valley. But high on a mountainpeak, when the wind drives the snow in visible layers like sheets of rain, it is the rhythm I heard, and it's also the rhythm you use to shake out a featherbed, or for that matter, ski down a slope, weighting and unweighting as your skis scrape the ice of the hardpack:
Holy Holle, Mother Winter...
Once I'd composed the first stanza, and fragments of others in my head (the phoenix feathers and the frosted window Dick liked so well were both conceived on the slope), I went back home, and after getting my sister's kids to bed, sat down at her computer and composed the first draft, Frau Holle shaking her feathers (and the rhythm) down onto the other stanzas. I posted it and went to bed.
The next morning, I heard the reactions, and among them -- here seems a good a time as any to announce this -- was a note from Jody asking if he could have it for First Things. He's now tentatively scheduled it for this next November's issue. As an extra prize, Tim asked to slate it for his next guest lariat, not telling me that would be Richard Wilbur. The honor is mine, and I'm very grateful to Dick for his comments so I can incorporate suggestions into a final draft before publication.
With what Dick said about the rigidity of the "Hiawatha" tetrameter (which I believe Longfellow originally got from the Kalevala, and thus I think suited for a midwinter piece), and the need for fresh senses -- along with Chris's astute observations on the lack of variation in structure with the lines of S3 -- I've made a revision to the end of that stanza, especially since the words had never quite satisfied me, even though no one had any specific complaints about them before (not that "unobjectionable" is any recommendation for poetry). Anyway, here's the new stanza:
Fairies paint the panes with feathers,
Frost the frames with hoary whiteness,
Limn the pines and posts with snowflakes,
Weave the world the gown of Winter,
Fragile lace, its frills and flutters
Fixed, all frozen water falling.
As Tim notes (as do Rose and Chris), I like alliteration, and the extra pinch here lets me describe the gown of Winter in a bit more detail and dressmaking terms, plus I get to use "flutters" as a noun to break from the constant verb use of the word, and I get to describe the snowfall on trees as a cascade of lace and a frozen waterfall (or at least is the echo I hope folk pick up from "water falling"). Plus, after four unbroken lines, I think the pause after "lace" and especially the abrupt pause after "fixed" (which goes with its sense, I think), help to make the ice a little less rigid.
With "feathers" and "falling," when I thought up the original six words, I thought of these two as my "hinges," the ones that would allow me the greatest latitude to kaleidescope the stanzas into new, but still recognizable, snowflake forms. Though the Nativity, and the use of "falling" there, was a bit of serendipity just before I went to bed.
Thank you all again, especially to Tim, for holding it in such high esteem to bring it to Dick's attention, and to Dick Wilbur, for sharing his wisdom so I can make the piece better.
(Honestly, my first sestina.)