Snow Globe

Shades of suede appear in my tea

once it is complete with milk and sugar- a westerner’s delight.

The creamy warmth melts my hands,

pulls me in, and makes me dread

the march outside to clear last night’s

persistent powdering of frozen flakes.

The worlds hush, sound muffled by snow,

makes the house fall silent,

a bubble of life with wooden walls and glass windows

to protect from winter’s sleeping spell

that falls over the city once like

this thick, white blanket.

 

Yet, poetry class calls, beginning at eight am.

I leave my cup of tea on the lonely kitchen table,

and zip soft leather up to my calves,

tie a scarf under my dimpled chin to insulate my mind,

blind my peripherals.

I glove my dry hands, pull on the tired blue coat,

breath in the last warm, stale moment of this

deliberate Friday morning, and I am off

into the snow globe.

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