A great metropolis awakens beneath a blanket of white,
its pulse slowed, subsided, as if the storm
had dusted a lullaby across the rooftops.
Skyscrapers stand like quiet sentinels,
once brimming with the buzz of business, now
lost in the muted hush of wind-swept streets.
The honking of horns is displaced
by the crunch of boots, sluggish and deliberate,
as if the city itself is catching its breath,
letting the world reset.
Chicago, always on the edge of motion,
finds its repose—
the sharp edges of traffic blunted,
the cold carving clean lines in the air.
Lake Shore Drive is frozen stop-motion,
the trees along Lake Michigan dressed in frost,
their branches heavy with the weight of snow
like pending promises.
Cars idle in strange patterns,
their engines purring but going nowhere,
a mosaic of commuters suspended in time.
The usual chaos, traded for a fragile peace,
as if nature spoke a language
only the senses can understand:
to rest, to breathe, to let go
of all that is running, racing,
and simply be.
The city glimmers of fresh snow and possibility,
a hint of winter’s magic that even in the midst
of the rush, something beautiful comes—
a perfect pause, a chance to reset,
to replace the grimy hum-drum
with scenes washed clean.
Shrouded from the roar of life, the city
finds its stillness,
and in that silence,
it reveals its serene beauty.
© 2025, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved. (1967)
