Here is our city—
its worn-out streets and unused
sidewalks, its brown grass and cast
aside lives. At least, for now

while the snow dominates. The sky
the ground, the blurry in-between
sifted through ice pixels
too tight to be proper snowflakes.

The trees smugly retain
their true colors—trunks all smudged
to charcoal softness, branches
and twigs thinly cling to the underside

of ice. No one ventures
out in cars. Even the dogs are kept
snug within the confines
of their houses or yards.

We don fuzzy socks, snuggle
in our fleece blankets, watch the world
outside our window as if some
nostalgic channel from an old

black-and-white TV. Forget
the volume control.
Who said silence is golden
when it is white and frozen.