Dave Bonta's "Blizzard" is a short poem in three small moments, and it feels like being shut inside a storm. In the first, winter has closed around two people, and they talk with "passionate hands." The image suggests that words aren't enough, or that the cold and the stillness leave only gesture, warmth, and closeness.
The second stanza looks outward. Beyond the room, the speaker imagines "no ground / that is not white." The snow seems to erase every boundary, which is both beautiful and a little unnerving, as if the ordinary world has been wiped blank.
In the last stanza, the speaker moves "bone by bone" through "the whole / strange city." That phrase makes the walk slow, careful, and physical, as though the cold has reached the skeleton. The familiar city has turned strange. The mood is hushed and intimate, with an edge of awe and unease at how completely the storm changes everything.