When the mob swarmed
in its wild gambit to topple
a government, trees locked
skeletal winter arms. Air rumbled,
raising vibrational waves
of roar. Higher up, clouds studied
the roiling, tiny people running
toward a miniature Capitol
as if in a paperweight’s wintry scene
which a flick of the wrist could change.
Then down through the branches,
down the boughs would snow fall,
covering the small men with beards
and sticks, and bombs like flutes
and dreams of massacre.
The air-beings, the trees and clouds
startled by the fury below took
care to infuse the surroundings
with the season’s freshness of brisk pine,
and I, too, the Lady Republic noticed.
Thus I shook the glass dome
they careened around in,
until they were quiet.
I made them all over
as snowmen with winter-minds,
so nothing themselves,
they believed nothing
that was not there, nothing
but whiteness everywhere
vanishing as it melted.
