Snow.

It doesn't matter where I go, snow will always be the same. It covers the harsh aroma of the city and finally makes it smell like nature, like home. East coast snow, midwest snow, it's all the same. And so am I, in any place anywhere in the world.

Morning in the city
before humans emerge
from houses in outfits
carefully planned
each night
before bed.

When only the
committed few
have risen
before the crowd
to share a
sacred moment with
the frail shell
of this metropolis

the buildings,
bridges, and empty stations
that have patiently awaited
human's return from
night's slumber.