Snow Globe

By John I. Blair

Three inches height
Does not measure true
The world contained here:
Strong house, bold firs
At corners all but one,
Slim chimney on the end,
Windows, doors,

Complete but for the folk
I expect to sight at any moment,
Delayed no doubt
By intermittent flurries
Of thick and blinding snow
That swirl up every time
I shake the globe.

I hope they are not
Caught in shifting drifts
Of fake flakes,
Fodder for minute disaster,
But instead have stopped
To toss tiny snowballs
And frolic in the white.

Or perhaps I’m wrong;
They’re already tucked inside,
Tight beneath the roof,
Sheltered by the trees
And piling fluff
Against a wintry wind
And biting cold,

Shivering at tales well-told
Of giants in the night.

©2009 John I. Blair