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.