Snow in Roanoke Today
Snow slipped into Roanoke this morning
quiet as a neighbor sneaking into the garage
to secretly return something they borrowed long ago.
Just a thin sift at first,
dusting rooftops, railings, the tops of parked cars
like powdered sugar on a chilled city.
By midday it thickened into soft curtains,
the kind that hush the world
and make even the usual traffic sounds
feel shy and far away.
I watched flakes drift past the window
in their slow winter dance,
each one deciding its own path,
none in a hurry.
The mountains wore the snow easily,
as if they had been waiting for it,
and Mill Mountain looked
like someone had tucked it in
with a fresh quilt.
Later, walking outside,
the air tasted like cold chalk and cloudwater.
Footprints appeared and faded,
birds hopped with the confusion of tiny librarians
whose books had all been refiled.
Roanoke felt softer today,
like the city had paused for a long breath,
and invited the rest of us
to breathe with it.
