The snow so soft, how many flakes
tiny and insignificant yet muffling the city’s roar
to a kindly purr.
The flakes sparkling by some trick of chemistry,
bonding together or sitting at an angle
one from another and reflecting the light
on the hood of the little car.
But everywhere the glistening sequins, white on white,
careless of our attention, our annoyance
at brushing off the screen or shovelling the steps.
It must be, I suppose, a certain temperature, a certain light
that makes our city sparkle town for a little time.
Quick, look as the snow falls and sits light, precarious
on your sleeve, on your car, on the fur of a passing cat.
Look at sparkle town.