Bus Stop #78

Standing at bus stop #78
I clasp my armpits possessively,
as if someone had asked to borrow them,
but I refused.

It’s unbearably cold.
People pass with their faces hidden
behind thick wool; only their eyes exposed
to this piercing winter,
dying to reach their destination.

The sound of traffic,
the smell of diesel,
the tired, busy bodies heading somewhere,
anywhere besides this icy prison.
They look numb
to any care other than escaping.

Time stops
when a chilling breeze picks up.
Infant snow bursts into an unclaimed sky;
appearing as soft crystals dancing
amongst those who despise its very presence.
Everyone is still, waiting
for the snow to settle.