In the night
the small ice
hit the window glass
and frosted the panes,
the slick snow
gleaming under
the orange haze of
streetlamps illuminating
the ghost walkers
in the single digit
temperatures.
The refrigerated winds
whipped up the wet fluff
into heavy drifts
which nestled deep into
the street corners.
We watched at the windows
as the world was torn
down by sleet and
angelic snow to a new state
which was calmly cleaner
and as subtle as mourning dove
singing.
The wickedly silent
violent rebirth
as it covered the ground
and slicked the boulevards-
we were dreaming window-shoppers
hoping to accumulate
this new beauty
in our arms,
these pristine suburban lawns,
no blemish of foot-print
no indentations of bulky angels
four feet tall. No,
but night swept the streets
clear and tossed the
prismatic shards
skyward to blaze
in orange incandescence in
the night.
We were silent watchers,
ourselves as snowflakes
falling in graceful turns with the
winds who made
beautiful silver pathways
to the heavens, renewed.
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