My snow-globe is more rare than rare,—
A strange antique most singular:
Crafted by one in magick skill’d,
Its contents cannot e’er be spill’d.
It started as a crystal ball
Enchanted and invincible.
A snowman now doth dwell therein,
Blasphemous, foul, and wicked as sin.
He only dons a scarf and sneer,
This angry, deviled, little dear.
He bears within the globe alone
An endless blizzard’s blast and moan.
The little thing is largely mean:
He rages still and gluts his spleen.
He rages while the storm doth blow
Alike the thunder in the snow.

O.O

there was always a shadow of
something,
but i wasn’t sure of its existence
until i felt the
flutter
under my skin,
a pulse of dead things
brought to life
a cluster of
silent creatures
in the zoo of my body
haunting the tips of my fingers
where i once held you
and a
spark
of remembrance
of things from a past
that has never happened
until you came along
and broke the wall separating dimensions
the universe has exploded in
my night time eyes
and i am even farther away
from the truth
sometimes things are much too great to comprehend
this must be what god is,
if anything at all
this must be a reason
this must be a meaning

It was the night of the thundersnow,
Meteorological harpie normally reserved for our northern brethren.
She stood grimly at the window,
In wait for a dawn which would not come
Save for the odd light, the incongruous rumbling,
Mock forbearer of those easy languid evenings of August.
She'd made some noise approximating a sigh,
Then returned to undress,
I hurriedly unlacing my boots, removing my pants,
(My feigned nonchalance a foolish, pitiable thing)
And I remember her ******* as  oddly demure,
Her ******* bewitching gumdrops,
The triangle below her waist downy, almost kittenish.
I'd broken her maiden clumsily, eagerly, all unheeding haste.
We'd lain next to each other for a short while afterwards
(The schools already closed for the next day,
Her father recently gone to the boneyard on Ludlow Hill,
She soon to be shuttled off to some spinster aunt in Dillsboro.)
I'd nattered on about summer vacations and thens and laters;
She'd said little, simply studying me with the bemused half-smile
One saves for sad dreamers not intimate with the knowledge
That notions of tomorrow and forever are strictly for suckers,
And as I strolled home come mid-morning,
The sun implacably straddled the sky,
Leaving the sidewalks and shoulders of the road
Completely dry, as if the night before had been a thing
Of perhaps-only, of dreams and tales for a later time.

sextilis made it beautiful
leaves lost it colours ,turned pale
;falling down to earth
fall streamed as yesterday flew
the oak tree in the midst of winter
is not in leaf; standing strong fathomless
"pretty" verily pretty standing alone
ceasing growth until spring
hares are almost all white like six sided snowflakes
I wished I can also hibernate
passing winter in a near-sleep state
unwilling sky called me with
thundersnow
I thought my ears playing tricks on me
nae, it's the real thunderstrom of snow
I'm, be lost of words not because of snow
because of the colorful creature wandering
playing around my glasses in sleet
I thought everyone hates cold
but this butterfly as a hope remained back
when all it's friend left for warmth
like how the little water adds up to snow
I'm staying here with snowmen far away
I'm not the winter earth which is closest to sun
I started to appreciate cold of winter ; of people
the oak tree with empty branches
the hare which changed it's colour
the moist air of  fluffy snow
the lost butterfly , the thunders and I
are all temporary
are all alone but still at there place hoping for new start and warm
I wish till then I enjoy the winter
and love the winter as well as next year.