A Place to Watch the Snow

By Bliss Bonner

A man brushes snow off the sidewalk with a broom

but it just keeps falling.

The sweeps seem to echo in the stillness,

that and the church bells singing down the street.

Few cars pass.

Flakes fall fast.

Smoke drifts from chimneys,

hangs low over town,

and the trees are dressed in frosty gowns.

Old houses watch another winter pass,

putting cracks in their pastel paint.

A few people brave the cold,

snow pants swishing,

coffee clutched close.

The bakery’s nearly empty,

the big table’s just left,

bundled in down coats.

It smells of fresh bread and hot coffee,

a place to watch the snow.