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Playtime

Kate Falvey

Do you remember thinking the world
was a snow globe, shaken by a giant child,
part brat, part experimental scientist,

whose hands quickened and slowed
without deliberation or a plan
for when the silver flakes would

delight, obscure, interfere, or blow
a necessary dust up in the ordinary
weather of the little twirling days?

I see them twitching the dome from fist
to titan fist, switching willy nilly scenes
of churchyards, dairy farms, freeway traffic jams,

maintained greenery in molten grassy parks,
cultivated wildness of confounded old growth
trees in flabbergasted party forests, camp smoke

whirling into pinkish nighttime skies. They’re
thunderous sometimes, these temperamental
child’s hands, with their devastating whacks,

dizzying the scabrous alley cats,
the jaundiced aspen leaves, the volcanic
volatility of surging scrums of gnats.

They delicately upend and shift, peering
through the smudges of the glass, as fires
vaporize the snow angels in silvered village

gardens where other smaller children
used to lift their sparkly, sprightly wings
and blithely spin and play.

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