A snowball on the ground, I have found, perfectly round, <br />created maybe by small hands, it stands and thus commands, <br />me to scoop it up and toss it across the cosmos. <br />And this I had wished to do, but it flew not, and slipped through my fingers, <br />landing at my feet, on hard concrete, no longer complete. <br /> <br />Carefully made and displayed, it was like a grenade <br />as the moulded flakes shattered into fragments which then takes the sun <br />to turn them into tiny watery lakes. <br />And now another snowball I have found, and this one is also action bound, <br />so whitely gowned. <br /> <br />Perhaps this time I can throw it high, beyond the sky, I know I’ll try. <br />Each single particle, never one the same, is so beautifully designed, <br />miraculously refined, and a pleasure to the mind.<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/perhaps-this-time/
