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.
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?