Natasha Wright

The Hands That Shake the Snow Globe

I used to keep a trinket by my bed.

The rounded orb would fit

in my cupped hands.  “Let it Snow” was carved into

the bottom of the globe, beneath

the tiny homes and roads.  I’d shake the town

with vigor, swirling left and right and round

in circles, dizzying the rounded flakes

before I’d flip it right side up and watch

the frantic blizzard.  Each and every flake

collided with the rest and spun with lack

of self control, then slowed within the thick,

transparent atmosphere of liquid

 in the sleepy mayhem. 

The snowfall drifted, lost and dazed,

to cling to tiny rooftops, lampposts,

whatever they could find, just waiting

for the world to be turned again.

I’d set the globe back down with shame filled eyes;

I’ve also known the dread of waiting,

the remnants of a scattered life

unhinged and shivering with fear,

left to wonder when the shattered lives will be

re-shaken by the greater hands of God

for future good, or stolen by the sly

thin-fingered demons that will flip our lives

and send us swirling just for fun

before they go to bed.  Could I be one of them?