Stop and wait for the moon to sculpt fire hydrants
to statues of frost. Everyone will be marooned;
everything will appear to have the same weight
when covered. It is the regularity, the sameness,
the smoothness that does it. Any solid color will
do: brown earth under the bent man shoveling
in front of his house on Beacon Street, black wool
coating a child outside Faneuil Hall, white clouds
embracing another walking in Cambridge past
2 Farrar Street. Purple gloves mask her face. Snow
makes visible what you would not ordinarily notice.
What must be a car by Longfellow's House could be
a tank with gun turrets removed or an elephant kneeling
for its master to mount. If a rag of smoke wraps
your eyes, inhale it, then open your mouth to catch
snowflakes, stars that freeze, beating on your tongue.