I traced a cake of snow
on the windowpane with my finger,
mounded it into a ball
and imagined I was God
holding the universe
in my palm.
In the white-heavy night
each leaf-like flake fell
one after another
like insatiable bombs dropping a nation,
wreaking havoc on last year’s rose bushes
flattening the flowerbed.
God-like and all
from my fiery heaven of vermillion walls
and Persian rugs
I assumed the role of spectator.
A radiant-white fall-out mounted
enough to drown the neighbor’s yard swing,
enough to gag the mouth of a cobblestone well.
Come morning, all greenery will be demolished
and the aftermath of shoveling sidewalks
and skidding through slush-decked streets
will extend its indomitable arms
and seize us.
All thoughts abolished,
I tucked myself inside the warm ribs
and dreamt of pale sand
and algid rock
lapping up the sun’s multicolored heat.
Jennifer Juneau’s work has appeared in many journals including American Poetry Journal, Cincinnati Review, Passages North, Seattle Review, Verse Daily and so forth. Her collection, More Than Moon, was a finalist in the National Poetry Series. She lives and writes in Switzerland.