February 1st

Sitting in this glass globe, I watch the snow falling

outside. It is pretty and sometimes I miss lifting

my face to the sky and feeling

the delicate flakes land cold

and then melt, leaving

my face wet and chapped in the winter air.

*

The world shakes and rattles

but in the shelter of my glass house all remains

quiet. I cast stones only at myself and am careful

not to break anything.

*

Here is my Christmas tree, brittle

and bright. It no longer drinks

but is alive. On the mantel, pictures of my children

from years past. The cobwebs I dare not

brush away. They tether the dust that piles

upon trinkets, talismans that dare you

to take my house and shake it, turn it upside down.

Watch the storm of particle gray whirl and rise

then drift back to where it came, a dream, a nightmare

a moment. Another moment. A lifetime.

All will remain unchanged.

*

Outside the wind has begun to roar, whipping

the falling flakes into a frenzied dance.

*

I remember dancing.

And living.

I am ashamed of my cowardice.

I am afraid of the wind. But the snow

is gentle and the sky is black.

*

Perhaps I will toss a stone into the night.

If the broken glass tears my flesh, what of it?

The crimson syrup will fall and spatter

a delicate pattern of roses in the snow.

Will I not look pretty lying in my garden of impossible memories?

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