Brooklyn Snow

Brooklyn Snow. By Feo. I forgot how cold it could be these past few years. Not the coldness of the soul but the coldness of winter, which attributes to the coldness of the soul. Walking on a carpet made of ice, blue as eyes could glaze with your breath visible as day. White dust blowing through Marcy Ave, windows of three story tenements paint a picture of seasons past. The above ground train never looked so festive but if only it could speak. I can speak for it. Does it get this cold across the river? Do they understand what the cold is? For once we are one, it's the Brooklyn snow that brings me to you.