Lowering from the snow globe sky,
Outlined by the dark grey storm,
Wet aspens edged with ermine pines,
These massed and cluttered forms
Tangle in the air like skeins of twine,
Snares of wires fusing in the leaden
Fog, masked behind the sifting screens
Of flakes, like the twisted bog
In the distant spun glass wild
I would cleave my way through
As a child, lattices of twigs blasted
By the wind, woven creepers matted
Into shambled braids, clouded in the vast
Ravel of the deep, warped jumble of this
Clumped day’s sleep, until the strings
And weaves of tinsel sprays are lost
In gnarled forests where we,
Like crystals in the frost,
Cling to dim trajectories of trees.