CHRISTMAS CAROL IN CENTRAL PARK

The night dressed up, flake after flake,
feather upon feather,
that which was but flame and gold,
cote of mail of a martial autumn
now whiteness’ realm.
What am I doing, I wonder, defiling,
trampling such exquisite plumage underfoot?
And I tear apart with my hands
a fistful of snow, as though a young pigeon,
and caress, gently rock and protect it
with utter love, care and tenderness.
So that it won’t cry with cold.