Snow drops down between buildings,
sheltered from winds
guarded by the bulk of the city
and illuminated by
streetlights and the pink marquee
People hesitate at doors,
then push out
rushing to start cars
and scrape ice--
to get warm
But we stop
to let the snow
fall onto our coats
onto our hair
frozen, a moment,
in the cold
Then our bodies shake in the wind
we walk quickly,
we get warm
all that's left of snow is
dampness in our hair.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment