Then all I knew of snow was
what I’d seen inside my house
and hands, which held the jar still
until they shook and whirled
white glitter up then down. And if
my hands held the jar to my eyes
and if my eyes looked through
the water to concrete and cul-de-sac,
Mrs. Johnson’s shark-colored car
in the circles it drove her to spy
through nights through our undressed
windows, I could give her a world
of snow she’d never see. Then I learned
a miracle is a private thing, is any
every thing that you call a miracle.
