By Morning

I was watching it from my window—

the snow falling on the building across the street,

all chain-link fence and exposed brick,

the kind of structure nobody thinks about,

just industrial necessity sitting there

announcing nothing.

But the snow was soft on it.

Landing on the rust stains of the fire escape,

making the whole thing look worth looking at,

making it beautiful the way snow

makes everything beautiful,

the way it covers up the graffiti,

the dirt, the years of neglect.

I stood there watching it,

knowing that by morning

the snow would melt,

the beauty would be gone,

and I'd be back to looking at

the same ugly building,

the same rust, the same chain-link,

the same nothing it had always been.

But for now, in this moment,

I let myself feel it,

let myself pretend that ugliness

could be transformed by something

as simple as weather,

as temporary as snow.

The snow kept falling.

Making beauty out of the ugly.

And I watched it, knowing

it wouldn't last, knowing

that by morning the beauty would melt

and I'd be left with just

the building, the fence, the rust—

the ordinary ugliness

of things that last.