to dust

the city
shrouded in gray and white
resembles Currier and Ives
gone somehow wrong.
It's the city I've seen
through this window
from this seat-
vinyl and wearing thin,
in the diner I've known
since I was old enough to know something
on my own.
When spring paints the hills
in pinks, yellows, and blues-
or summer dyes everything
a deep, emerald green-
and Autumn turns all there is
to rust and rustling-
it is nothing.
All this is dull
and heavy
and too busy, hot, and oppressive.
But the Winter-
with it's gray and dirt-caked splendor-
this is beauty,
this is the beginning
of the frozen,
and the glowing,
and the shimmering, breathless night.