Edward Esch wrote the lyrics for Eric Whitacre’s luminous choral work "Glow," using light as a metaphor for human intimacy.
Softly falls the winter snow,
whispers to the sleeping world below:
"Glow, like the softly falling snow.”
Those words don’t just sound poetic — they’re surprisingly accurate.
In the early light of dawn, snow really does seem to glow. Part of the reason is physical. Snow is made up of countless tiny ice crystals, and fresh snow reflects most of the light that reaches it.
As morning approaches and the sun sits low on the horizon, its light is softened as it passes through the atmosphere. Even before sunrise, during the quiet blue of twilight, snow catches and reflects that faint light, standing out against the dark outlines of trees, rooftops, and roads.
But there’s more at work than physics.
In the early morning, our eyes are still adapted to darkness. In that state, we’re especially sensitive to subtle brightness and contrast. Small differences stand out more clearly. The snow hasn’t changed — our perception has. What might look ordinary at midday appears luminous in the hush of dawn.
That’s where Whitacre and Esch’s metaphor deepens. To "glow" isn’t only about shining brightly. It’s about reflecting what little light is available. Like snow at first light, we don’t have to generate brilliance on our own. We can reflect warmth through attention, kindness, or a quiet presence.
Snow glows not because it shines, but because it gathers the light and reflects it. In the same way, our brightest moments are often the quiet ones — when we notice, respond, and care.
Inspired by softly falling snow, perhaps that’s how we’re meant to glow for each other.
