Song for a Snow Day

January morning:
Silver world. The city has shut down, a brittle

Metropolis weighted under the gravity
Of winter. The snow cuts fine, pewter-white trails through

The new blue air, and I am reprieved from phone calls
And petty bureaucracies for one blissful day.

There are lessons to learn
In this quiet alabaster declination:

The story of our lives as seen through the shining
White eyes of a snowy revolution. Human

Autobiography falling, languid, to Earth.
The flakes begin as excitedly as a new

Birth, coming to dwell with
their likenesses: it is a surprisingly smooth

Labor. Yet we all know things will not remain so
Easy. Some will vanish beneath rubber-soled (souled?)

Gods; some will grow dirty with the pollution of
The world, scraped aside in such bladed agony;

And still others will thrive
So inexplicably, gathered in neat mounds like

Bolts of Venetian lace. Their commonality
Will only reemerge upon their small deathbeds;

Sinister sun, swallow us with your light quickly,
That is all we ask. Oh fat white flakes: Sing to me

Of little deaths.