In snowy chiffon
And icy diamonds fit
For balconies and lamposts,
For archways and rooftops,
Fit for the delicate web of tears frozen on
My windowpanes.
And today
The muck and grim—
The debris from the years modernity spent abusing the
Sidewalks
And alleyways that
Serve as the veins running through this city's slender body—
Are covered,
Hidden under the elegant skirts that
New York dawned last night.
But the soiled past that seems hidden with morning's glory
Lurks around street corners and storm drains,
Where the white left by midnight has been stained by
The boots of a thousand spectators
Greeting our lady
With the chilling breaths issuing from their mouths
As they gasp for the warmth they felt under evening's
Sheets.
Still,
This city
Has prepared for her day of rest,
Her day of solitude,
As bundled bodies shuffle through her thick locks,
The carefully woven avenues flowing from the crown of
Her head.
And shrouding her grey eyes,
Twigs coated in a frosty mascara
Hide the depths
Of her
Ambition—
Coy glimpses of sky peaking through the façade
Of rooftops and towering
Steel glass
Walls.
And though the sanitation workers,
And the street shovelers,
And the relentless plows marching up and down her
Arms and legs and hands and feet
Will all try to defile the gown she has put on for
The new day,
Even they will not be able to strip her
Of her splendor.
