The snow drifts down on little moth wings.
It's a fine, soft, dry powder,
White dust on the black streets of Manhattan.
I kick it; it scatters like desert sand.
A car spins its wheels and lurches ahead;
Rock salt crunches underfoot.
The air is cold and dry and silent
The city sleeps under a new blanket.
This is why I rarely write poetry and even more rarely publish it.
it's kinda nice pauly, but why you kicking the snow?