The city buried
In three feet of snow
I hear the crunching of footsteps
Being placed like autographs
In wet cement
Smells of gingerbread,
Peppermint and pine trees
Thin cold air snapping at
Anything in its path
People walking with their heads
Burrowed deep into their coats
I wake up in the night
And see silver specks falling
Like scraps of paper, in the dark
As if the dying stars
Were falling out of
Their black knit sky
Small children plowing through the snow
With smiles as wide
As the hole in our ozone layer
As they wait anxiously for Christmas
Billions of lights scattered on trees
Roofs and mailboxes
A lone Menorah perched
In a lonely window sill
The light of the candles dimming
With the setting sun
