The changes that can take place between the first and final versions of a poem astound me. Sometimes in my poetry journals I am lucky to find both preserved. Here are two approaches from 2010 to a snow-filled morning: haiku, version 2; and the original poem, version 1. It was my year of writing daily haiku, so I condensed the long version into the short one.
Snow Globe (2)
Before dawn, snow falls.
Light lifts, drifts, infuses this
creamy, cradled bowl.
Snow Globe (1)
Before dawn, the snow comes down.
The shed, the hydro wire, the metal
swing chair without its cushions–
all wear the same homage to sky.
Thick as cream, clouds fill the bowl
above us and the flakes tumble
til we are only shapes and shades of clouds.
In our bowl there is no sun
there is no moon
the streetlamps have no power.
We are lit by reflected glory,
a steady glow of grey and ochre
rising from the ground, falling from the sky,
assimilating every atom in our snow globe.
Feb. 23, 2010