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

of midnight

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.