Climbing high, high, high,
the mounds of white collapse onto concrete beds.
Heads freeze within seconds,
wind bites cheeks and toes,
while burned wood whistles in the alley.
Way, way, out on the street,
sweepers spread salt,
saturating the cracks and crevices.
It is gray around town,
the morning sun hides behind tumbling cumulus clouds,
folding within themselves.
Shout!
We call the parade towards the lake,
mistaking the noise for celebration,
not pain.
if ice-skaters dance in the harsh night,
and hoodlums hound the haughty underpass,
then maybe the day will come.
Yes,
it may come
someday.
