This was a poem about snow

It's quiet now.
No tire chains thumping down James Street
Everyone's home from work now
Everyone who's coming home
Those unlucky bastards who work the night shift
Will have to confront the Northeaster
When it arrives at midnight tonight.

Me, I'm safe. I'm home.
Let the wind blow, let the snow plow
I am behind insulated walls,
My blinds are closed tight
My threshold is sealed
Against the unwanted visitor

And I walk from room to room
Inspecting all my things
My books, my crosses,
My heart shaped stones
My box of old photos
My grandma's onion skinned papers
Her words stamped on them
With an inked ribbon and typebar letters
Her mistakes were crossed out
She did not waste paper
If she had to abandon a paper midway through
She turned it around and upside down
And started over.

This did not start out as a poem about my Grandma
They never do
But so many of them end that way.