Snowglobe

Hinges swing door open

to an empty parking lot.

Wandering eyes wander

to an infinite field

blanketed with freshly fallen snow

as melting icicles drip

from the sky.

It was warmer down below

outside the bubble.

Check watch. It’s 8:59 a.m.

somewhere in the world.

Compass points northwest---

begin journey

without breadcrumbs.

These days

the bank is broken and

the word is spun tight

around the eagle’s nest,

intricate inoffensive weaves

protect against the blow

of sharp convictions.

Nights are spent fully clothed

face pressed hard

against Jupiter’s fourth moon

(one is never enough).

Asylum is sought

near protruding branches

and plastic snowmen.

There are no corners to turn and

no one around the bend

pointing toward the next landmark.

Stake cracks the frozen ground

and sticks to its own shadow

as dusk clings to the faltering daylight,

as words cling to meaning  

and the radiant opens

once again.

© 2013 d.c.p.