In the snowglobe
It was just after what should have been sunset.
Snow puffs like tiny white birds cupped in the leaves
of the evergreen magnolia glowed
a pale violet like the snow on the ground
and the blank motionless sky .There were only
the flat pines at the horizon, which were black,
and the glistening road, which was very black,
running parallel, and the flat black trunks of
winter-stripped pecans to break the purple plain.
He walked out close to the house so to disturb
as little as possible. As he stood in
the yard the sky turned dark and the snow came again
and he remembered improbably a long-
forgotten childhood dream -he dreamed that he was
all alone in his grandmother's huge bed that
in the dark he could not see the ends of, just
as he could never see the end of the world;
he lay there so small with his head upon a
feather pillow, and in reasonable dream
logic the pillow unsurprisingly burst
like a puffball mushroom, and all around him
the room was filled with feathers that he could see
even in the dark each clear enough to name.
So the dream returned, sure as a prophecy,
when in the night the snowflakes filled what little
world he could see and clung to his face like breath –
he only wished the revelation longer,
long enough to name each dissimilar flake.
G. S. Morris