Snow falls

Photo©Tim Green
Queensbury, close to where I was brought up.

Snow falls

only in the mind’s eye now,
a glass globe, a postcard,
face pressed to cold glass,
how it covered those fields
where black walls ran,

but I see it still,
like the ghosts of winter hills,
the dark sea rolling,

and in the nightwind
dead voices whisper
with the pine-scented tinkle
of glass decorations,
reminding me of its magic.