wait until bedlam subsides--
the white grains scraped from pavement
stick, tenacious, unyielding,
crystalline strong structures foiling
manmade metal
scattering the salt, rough seasoning
for the streets, as they talk,
each to each, through the air,
jesting of this and that,
through the lace curtains of ice
blinding sight, hands thickened
with cold and double-plied gloves
forging on up hills, to dead ends, to
the quiet cul-de-sacs blanketed
with the white that deadens sound
so thoroughly
a respite from wheel-
squealing, the engine-roars
replaced by the slow steady sound
of salt scattered wide, curb to
curb, (or close enough) to clear
our way, to cut a path,
to leave us free to walk again
unblocking the black arteries that
join us, one to one, to everyone
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