Haiku of Snow

I walk outside my front door every day of the year. Every day of the year, something is askew about the environment since yesterday. Sometimes a subtle aroma of Chinese food drifting from the restaurant near my house strikes my nose, and other times the humidity of a solemn day transmits tingles up my skin. This past week has been monotonous. The days have merely varied by the tint of gray omitted by the clouds. I conclude that if I was a stranger to Boston, I would be incapable of telling whether the sun was rising or setting.

Maybe the dark gloomy days were worth their color. Yesterday, the first snowstorm hit the city. Today, I look out of my window and notice a white, fluffy world. Indistinct footsteps taken during the snowstorm last night are lightly coated with a fresh, thin layer of snow, making them invisible from a bird’s eye view.

Daintily fluttering down,

while leaving white streaks,

left to be melt by the sun.