A boyish boast

This last snowfall proves that--like a chubby stripper--New York looks better with a little bit of cover. The city is blanketed with snow and Harlem Meer, the pond outside my window, has disappeared under it. There are kids dragging sleds and pelting each other with snowballs. The ghetto wardrobe does not befit the weather, and many spend absurd amounts of time removing snow from inside their sagging pants. All in all, life is good.

This time of year always makes me think of my favorite poem, First Snow in Alsace, by Richard Wilbur, and I commend it to you. It seems even more apt in a time of war:

The snow came down like moths
Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,
Covered the town in simple cloths.

Absolute snow lies rumpled on
What shellbursts scattered and deranged,
Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.

As if it did not know they'd changed,
Snow smoothly clasps the roofs of homes
Fear-gutted, trustless and estranged.

The ration stacks are milky domes;
Across the ammunition pile
The snow has climbed in sparkling combs.

You think: beyond the town a mile
Or two, this snowfall fills the eyes
Of soldiers dead a while.

Persons and persons in disguise,
Walking the new air white and fine,
Trade glances quick with shared surprise.

At children's windows, heaped, benign,
As always, winter shines the most,
And frost makes marvelous designs.

The night guard coming from his post,
Ten first snows back in thought, walks slow
And warms him with a boyish boast:

He was the first to see the snow.