I know Autumn has only just begun, but whenever this time of year rolls around, my thoughts stray to New York City and the beauty of Manhattan when it snows, especially Central Park. The day I’m referring to in this poem remains one of my all-time favorite memories of my life in the city, despite the loneliness I felt at the time.
Snowflakes In Central Park
I remember that day in the city
The branches of the bare-boned elms
bordering the park
stood dressed in silky satin and
posed prettily aside empty benches
and glistening lamp posts.
Snow lay upon deserted streets
like a pillowy-soft blanket,
as a guilt-ridden Mother Nature
might swaddle her precious fruit
against the biting coldness of her wrath.
The flakes fell like confetti,
feather soft and silent,
streaming this way and that.
Everywhere I turned, I saw
White fields
White limbs
White sky
as if the “Concrete Jungle” no longer existed.
How long had it been since I’d spoken?
It could have been weeks.
Only the great trees seemed to listen
as I walked
alone.
*Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.
I felt the cold of that day, the loneliness. Another poem that so beautifully described how you felt. It made me feel that myself. And that is a gift of a good writer, my friend.