Snow Room

By Peter Halstead

Shake the little plastic dome
And Hansel and bucolic Gretel
Disappear in miniature foam,
Pseudo flakes that come to settle

Over leafy PVCs
Which our childlike make-believe
Wants to see as storm-tossed trees
On the verge of Christmas Eve,

A white-out as an act of will,
Not much different from the world
Currently outside our windowsill,
Except that what is therein swirled,

Although invisible, is genuine,
Or at least we’re inside looking out,
Whereas being outside looking in
Leaves some room, perhaps, for doubt.