stays frozen, like the snow in shadow

Admittedly, I have not been impressed with Copenhagen's cityscape. The buildings are quaint, but not quaint enough to evoke memories of any other time other than this one. If they are modern, they are stark naked in the same way that all modernist creations pleasure in standing before you, unabashedly jutting out their irregular metal parts. Hardly shocking.

I woke up yesterday, sat on my heater and looked out of my window upon a snow-covered courtyard. Prints of footfall and bicycle trails led out to the street. I brushed the ice off of Alex's seat and handles with mittened hands. The falling snow buzzed everywhere in tiny tufts like Nabokovian midges, not gold but white. It fell so unassumingly that it was a wonder to see that it had enchanted the entire municipality of Frederiksberg. It fell into the waiting latticed arms of trees and nestled in the crooks of their branches. A dachshund in a light jacket waddled leg-deep in the white. I wanted to pay attention in my favorite class but I was distracted by the fact that I was sitting inside the tiny glowing holiday house within a snowglobe. Through the windowpane there was whirling. I liked the way the specks settled home in my hair and dissolved on my face. The rooftops of all the buildings were fairytale-fringed in a way that I resolved to live somewhere where there would always be snow like this.

This morning, the sun was in denial of the previous day's events and everywhere there were standing pools of water. The sweet season that warms all the hills.