Snowglobe Memories
How peaceful is the snowglobe village
resting in its protected place
high atop grandpa’s knicknack shelf,
the one he keeps out back in his private space
The woodshop smells like new cut cedar
while the old radio plays jazz-time concertos,
outside the birds take turns at the feeder
and grandpa tells stories of days in the village.
He remembers the names of children at play
and the brook as it rambled and babbled nearby,
he said he’d go back but the village was razed
then pavemented over for a super-highway.
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