Last night I took a midnight walk around the block, which stretched into another six blocks and past several men rhythmically shoveling the sidewalk, as the snow fell and pelted me in the face.

The scrape, scrape, scrape of shovel meeting snow and ground the only sound in the frigid air, and a cop car silently making its rounds, my eyes watering. Were they stinging from the cold, or were they shedding tears?

In the eye of the impending storm, me and the frozen streets.

Picasso said that every child is born an artist. Maybe every child is born a poet, it's all about if you choose to remain a poet as you grow older, and allow certain moments, places, people to revive your senses.