Out of the bosom of the Air,

      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

            Silent, and soft, and slow

            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

      In the white countenance confession,

            The troubled sky reveals

            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

            Now whispered and revealed

            To wood and field.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Looking out my window last night, the heavy blanket of snow my Brooklyn street was overlain with, made all who lived here momentarily stand still under it’s weight. It bellowed and whistled at us, at once cocooning our world with it’s dangerous arms, and warning us to the warmth of our homes.

We have begun to pack, and the frenzy of it has made me weary. Next week, we will load a truck and set off. And, seemingly, New York has given us one more unforgettable memory to hold in our hearts as we do.

Being storm-bound is often the only way for New Yorkers to still themselves. The City, in all her glitter and brilliant intrigue, is a mistress that steals your energy. But when the weather screeches at us, it is a harsh ally. Reluctantly, we take her call. We hide inside.

The beauty of snow fades rather quickly, and with its majestic fading, the quiet ceases. The work begins. We clear a path to the trains, and salt the cement beneath our shoes so we can bustle to-and-fro. The call of the City is louder than the whisper of the wind in the snow-banked streets.

She will always win.

Ground and sky swirl silver and white, a life-size snow globe in a city made of concrete. A playground capsule where we are in awe of what nature can do.

For a moment, this is all there is, the snow and the child in the snow. The balls made of it. The Men built from it. The world veneered in it. And I am thankful to breathe in the coldness of snow because you never forget the cold, or the fingerprint it leaves on your bones.

I will carry that with me forever.