The first snowfall
Blanketing the parked cars,
the few blades of grass,
and the trash,
I watched as
the snow whispered
to the ugly city streets:
“You, too, can be beautiful.”
Today, as the snow fell outside,
I watched a repairman
take his bad day out on those he was meant to service,
and I thought,
What would it take for this to be beautiful?
How does one level the playing field
of the human species,
as the undercurrents of animosity grow?
Why is this not beautiful?
What kind of pain grew in this man’s heart,
shaping the new way he breathed,
seeing everyone but himself as the enemy?
How, how do I make this better,
how do I lift the cloak of ugly and reveal beauty?
Because there is no question that it is there.
Because it’s always there.
My one-year-old nephew saw beauty
in the wet snowfall as it landed
on my arms
and his eyelashes,
as he giggled
at the novelty of it.
As he laughed,
I found beauty too,
in the heavy, wet, slush
that surrounded me,
remembering my first snowfalls,
before I realized the snow was something
that could ruin someone’s day
or cause an accident
or delay travel plans.
I was born the day before a snowstorm
that left thousands without power.
I felt the first scratch of a story fall into line in my mind,
about a man that was a repairman,
and what it means to find beauty
in bitter words and angry days,
and about how much more everything is then it seems.
Maybe one day I’ll write it.
I’m not sure it’s time just yet.
Because he was just a repairman,
But when I am,
and I’m tasked with finding beauty
in pain, and ugly, and muddy tracks,
perhaps I’ll look at the snow
that beauty can be found
even on the city streets
filled with old