It’s snowing in Chicago.

Like it was on that day
almost exactly a year ago.
We’d been walking for hours;
my hands had frozen in snow
and you warmed them in yours.

It’s snowing in Chicago.

And occasional sun would shine,
piercing the veil of snow
to light up winter-blue eyes.
I hugged you, so you could know
the sudden joy of being mine.

It’s snowing in Chicago.

The snowflakes had melted in your hair
leaving you crowned in glittering water-diamonds,
as you looked down at me gravely,
not returning the hug,
and told me you were leaving.

It’s snowing in Chicago,
coating this dismal grey city
in a deceptive layer of
perfectly beautiful
white across the rooftops.

I wish it would rain.

M.A. Mohanraj
November 5, 1992