The city grows still, save the snowfall.
Did it really grow still? People staying
inside, burrowing in with their
coffee and the paper? Or does
the snow absorb the hum of the city
into its cells? Making certain this
moment is honored with silence?
Birds flit and fly.
Snowflakes alight on my
eyebrows. And the stillness is a balm
from which I hope to never
emerge. But I will.
Tomorrow’s forecast — slushy rain,
the swoosh of tires on wet
streets, the bustle resumed.
So I take this moment.
Except I can’t really take it,
as it isn’t mine to take,
but is its own magnificent
sovereignty I am merely
allowed the privilege of tasting,