Touch

The snow falls like moments of white dust;

the drifts drift, softly unaware.

It’s snowing:

it’s a brush on your cheek,

the quiet lump in your throat.

It tangles in your scarf,

melting the small drop

that trails shivering down your shoulders,

and along the warm curve of your back.

It unnerves you, just a little, just a bit;

That between the movement of limbs,

the flashing lights, the noise and the sound,

between the stained steel

and the stainless concrete,

the sky still leaves its lingering touch

remembered on your skin.