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by Mark Belair
The proud Washington Square Arch presents a
statue of the venerable general whose left wrist,
angled against a podium, is the first place on
his person to collect a gentle fall of snow, the
towering, stone-faced, wind-cracked warrior
made suddenly pacific by this soft wristlet.
Iron handrail posts
sprout tiny snowcaps.
Distant shovels, scraping sidewalks, disclose
the rough contours of lightly dusted cement
while the twirling flurry lands
slight and sticky enough to
cling down blades of grass
and along bicycle spokes.
Then the snow drives on
all day to develop into
a soft, white, city-wide