Snowfall’s white descent is piling up, uninterrupted,
in layers of soft milk-chalk, as if this is its burdensome
intent, to lay rule over a silenced city.
Snowflake: not the modern fragile sense, but as perfect
crystallization, the sum of every shade of color,
each one as wholly unique.
Children on the PS 118 playground know this,
know that snow is an invitation, a communal call
that bestows no rules.
A snowman gets built, rolled through dirt and debris,
patted down with wet and snot-smeared mittens.
His dirty, rock-coal eyes wink to their delight;
a smile of stones follows. A child pulls a button
from her thrift-store coat, offering what she can
to make things whole.
