Snow in Chicago

I


You mute the air

And I can open my eyes wide,

Sky and asphalt and naked trees

Dressed in the same gray white,

Soft. You smooth the creases,

Cover over sharp edges and points, shroud

The dirt and broken bottles and forgotten

Socks in gutters. Everyone drives politely, if only

Out of fear and the

world slows

Down.



II

The old homeless woman looks happier than usual,

Though her tennis shoes surely have holes, leaking slush

To soak her only pair of socks. But people are more generous

When they see those shoes in the snow, below her chapped red face,

And almost every car brings an open window and

A handful of cash. She tucks it in her coat so it won’t get wet

And gives you thanks even as you freeze her naked fingers.



III

Young man (black or white?) shuffles along, face hidden in his fluffy hood,

The same worn by the businessman (known only by his briefcase)

trotting to the bus and the old woman (or man?)

Burdened by grocery bags, back to the wind.

Median trees, barely growing in two feet of precious soil,

Stretch endlessly up the fathomless, falling sky,

Each twisted twig a silver scepter. They arch in majesty

Over the asphalt, now a silver carpet, and for a while

Make an avenue of kings.

For one hour, the city shares in a communion of clothing

When you give them clean white robes covering

The filth of collected carelessness.