Ode to Snode

Robert G. Ferrell
Furry white hexagons, Spinning, flouncing through the void; Wetness in a lace doilie— How many will make it to terra firma? Do the ones that stick to contrail birds Ever fall off? Vast vistas smothered in a blanc blanket; Footprints leading to and from an empty mailbox That moments ago overflowed with hopeful solicitations— Felicitations of a season buried in expectations Of black ink and boosting bottom lines. Sphere piled upon sphere like stacked beach balls; Children scurrying, scouting for frosty extremities On cold cotton beaten brown by waffled stompers. Injection-molded polystyrene carrots Make for noses that will never run— They stay where you put them. None of this is really happening, of course. White flakes from Heaven are a myth In a land dominated by chipotle and Fiesta. The freeze just isn't there, at least not long enough To harden the too infrequent sluice juice into Languid crystalline parachutes. So a dreamer with a flat panel journal stares out Through panes of liquid silicates flowing earthward At the speed of human social evolution and ponders Whiteness, or the lack thereof, on a brown-gray canvas— But I won't throw out my back shoveling fantasy.

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