Wanting Snow

i.
Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry

until

*
one flake

**
and then another

***
and still more fall
and group and mass,
filling the air, falling

down

****

down,

gracing the ground
with an illusion of purity,
punctuating branches
with complex simplicity.

ii.
In fallen snow life imitates art.

White lines cross narrow surfaces,
delicate as pen-and-ink illustrations
that flow like a coda on the flight of birds,

wider swaths curve to streetlamps,
strangely iridescent and compelling,
playing light impressions over landscape,

and late at night when the city’s
blanketed expanse seems unending
in contrasts, Steigliz’s ghost
haunts avenues, camera in hand,
stalking relentless ice.

iii.
Cities in snow are beautiful,
sifted drifts rest on wrought iron spikes,
crystal stilettos are deadly,
hang half-hid by gables.
Bemused gargoyles perch on stone,
sporting milk mustaches

They should be ashamed
of themselves!

All the motion of architecture
is rearranged. The silence
in a map of footsteps
speaks louder than the clang
of skyscrapers.

iv.
Early morning is best
for snow walking. The dawn
of solitude is broken,
crunched by boots,
the crash of icicles falling,
the steady hiss of my breath
puffing pockets in a wool scarf.

Later I’ll be a face in a window,
swaddled in hot chocolate
and Segovia.